Poems about Love

Love Poems speak about the passion, desire and vulnerability of love in all its stages. When we share our lives with another, our whole world is completely different. To fall in love may be one of the greatest feelings ever. Romantic relationships are the spice of life. They make us feel alive in a way that nothing else can. Genuine romance exists when two individuals show that they care for each other by doing small acts for each other that demonstrate love and affection. We feel loved and cared for when we know that our significant other is thinking about how to give us the most pleasure. Romance is the key to keeping the sparks flying. Without it, any relationship will soon lose its shine.

Poem

                                  Poems about Love

Love Poems speak about the passion, desire and vulnerability of love in all its stages. When we share our lives with another, our whole world is completely different. To fall in love may be one of the greatest feelings ever. Romantic relationships are the spice of life. They make us feel alive in a way that nothing else can. Genuine romance exists when two individuals show that they care for each other by doing small acts for each other that demonstrate love and affection. We feel loved and cared for when we know that our significant other is thinking about how to give us the most pleasure. Romance is the key to keeping the sparks flying. Without it, any relationship will soon lose its shine.

Rotten Row

In Rotten Row

In Rotten Row a cigarette

I sat and smoked, with no regret

For all the tumult that had been.

The distances were still and green,

And streaked with shadows cool and wet.

Two sweethearts on a bench were set,

Two birds among the boughs were met;

So love and song were heard and seen

In Rotten Row.

The Unconquerable

 The Unconquerable

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud,

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

The Old Flame

The Old Flame

My old flame, my wife!

Remember our lists of birds?

One morning last summer, I drove

by our house in Maine. It was still

on top of its hill -

Now a red ear of Indian maize

was splashed on the door.

Old Glory with thirteen stripes 

hung on a pole. The clapboard

was old-red schoolhouse red.