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'Twas here my summer paused
'Twas here my summer paused
What ripeness after then
To other scene or other soul
My sentence had begun.
To winter to remove
With winter to abide
Go manacle your icicle
Against your Tropic Bride.
Poems on the topic: marriage
Poems on the topic “marriage” on Poets.by.
London
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appalls,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife
TO these whom death again did wed
This grave 's the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till the stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never die in night.
A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be
A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be --
Sunrise -- Hast thou a Flag for me?
At Midnight, I am but a Maid,
How short it takes to make a Bride --
Then -- Midnight, I have passed from thee
Unto the East, and Victory --
Midnight -- Good Night! I hear them call,
The Angels bustle in the Hall --
Softly my Future climbs the Stair,
I fumble at my Childhood's prayer
So soon to be a Child no more --
Eternity, I'm coming -- Sire,
Savior -- I've seen the face -- before!
Sonnet 38 - First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own.'
Where all the flowers have gone
the ought-to-have-been couple
raw and pretty to see together
gain a year’s distance
he hit her
that former wit
now well married to a war
Erectile dysfunction
at my peak
like God not present
to my wife
Matched
my ice and her passion
her stairs and my back
wed like a pair of dice
her home a lesson in light
my mind heavy with arithmetic
To have and to hold
a pair of hands
could love very well
all felt and feel
end and band
how her hands ask
always to marry
always to live
and have 20 other things
Collector
her extravagant
collection of antiquities—
married to a bastard
In/mates
my wife and I dine on a heart
nothing but gruel and need
who knows what kind of night
began as a cell
Vicar
proud of my pretty hands
I play a wise man
give husband to wife
with my two copies of a book
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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