Sonnet: Beauty Of Her Face
For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
They that go with her humbly should combine
To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
So perfect is the beauty of her face
That is begets in no wise any sigh
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.
poem by Dante Alighieri
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hark, All Ye Lovely Saints Above
Hark, all ye lovely saints above,
Diana hath agreed with Love,
His fiery weapon to remove. Fa la.
Do you not see
How they agree?
Then cease, fair ladies; why weep ye? Fa la.
See, see, your mistress bids you cease,
And welcome Love, with love's increase;
Diana hath procured your peace. Fa la.
Cupid hath sworn
His bow forlorn
To break and burn, ere ladies mourn. Fa la.
poem by Thomas Weelkes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
True Beauty
May I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air,
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if't were none.
May I find a woman rich,
And not of too high a pitch;
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her falseliood not disguise;
Hath she wit as she hath will,
Double arm'd she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind:
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine?
May I find a woman true,
There is Bettutv's fairest hue,
There is Beauty, Love, and Wit:
Happy he can compass it.
poem by Francis Beaumont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Song
Who hath his fancy pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover's heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part:
Thus is her life still guarded
In never-dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look then, and die! The pleasure
Doth answer well the pain:
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain!
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places--
This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries;
Yet eyes deprived be not
From sight of her fair eyes--
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light!
poem by Philip Sidney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Her Whose Name
To her whose name,
With its sweet sibilant sound like sudden showers
Splashing the grass and flowers,
Hath set my April heart aflame;
To her whose face,
The flower and crown of all created things,
Dearer than even Spring's,
Hath been to me a sacrament of grace;
Whose luminous mind,
Stored with all gladness of the earth and sky,
Hath lightened my sad eye
And made it wise in love which erst was blind;
Whose voice of pleasure,
Calling to joys as a blithe wedding bell
When ringers ring it well,
Hath tuned my soul to its own happy measure;
Whose blessed hand,
With its white mystery of fingers five,
Each one a soul alive,
Hath taught me truths no angels understand;
Whose arms within,
Should she once clasp me to her very heart,
God knoweth we should not part
But live for aye in Heaven's own bliss divine;
To her, alas,
Who is so near, yet standeth still so far,
Seeing the mortal bar
Betwixt us ever which we cannot pass,
These lines I send
With my heart's tears to--night beseeching her,
Of her dear love more dear,
To be no less to me my sweetest soul and friend.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XLIX: How Long
How long shall I in mine affliction mourn,
A burden to myself, distress'd in mind?
When shall my interdicted hopes return
From out despair wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow charg'd with disdain
Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart?
When shall my faith the happiness attain
To break the ice that hath congeal'd her heart?
Unto herself, herself my love doth summon,
If love in her hath any power to move,
And let her tell me as she is a woman
Whether my faith hath not deserv'd her love.
I know she cannot but must needs confess it,
Yet deigns not with one simple sign t'express it.
poem by Samuel Daniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love's Reason
For that thy face is fair I love thee not;
Nor yet because the light of thy brown eyes
Hath gleams of wonder and of glad surprise,
Like woodland streams that cross a sunlit spot:
Nor for thy beauty, born without a blot,
Most perfect when it shines through no disguise
Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise, ---
For all these outward things I love thee not:
But for a something in thy form and face,
Thy looks and ways, of primal harmony;
A certain soothing charm, a vital grace
That breathes of the eternal womanly,
And makes me feel the warmth of Nature's breast,
When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Vaudois Teacher
'O Lady fair, these silks of mine
are beautiful and rare,-
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's
queen might wear;
And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose
radiant light they vie;
I have brought them with me a weary way,-will my
gentle lady buy?'
The lady smiled on the worn old man through the
dark and clustering curls
Which veiled her brow, as she bent to view his
silks and glittering pearls;
And she placed their price in the old man's hand
and lightly turned away,
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call,-
'My gentle lady, stay!
'O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer
lustre flings,
Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on
the lofty brow of kings;
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue
shall not decay,
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a
blessing on thy way!'
The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her
form of grace was seen,
Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks
waved their clasping pearls between;
'Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou
traveller gray and old,
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my
page shall count thy gold.'
The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a
small and meagre book,
Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his
folding robe he took!
'Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove
as such to thee
Nay, keep thy gold-I ask it not, for the word of
God is free!'
The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he
left behind
Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-
born maiden's mind,
And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the
lowliness of truth,
And given her human heart to God in its beautiful
hour of youth
And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil
faith had power,
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the
maidens of her bower;
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly
feet untrod,
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the
perfect love of God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Envy Nothing But One
I don’t envy the angels with wings who can fly
I’ve been soaring in the beautiful sky of your love
I don’t envy the beauty of the rainbow
You’ve made me the most beautiful woman in your love
I don’t envy the freedom of the dolphins swimming in the ocean
I’ve been swimming in the ocean of your loving eyes
I don’t envy Shakespeare for his love poems
I’ve become the greatest poet since I met you
I don’t envy Romeo’s faith to Juliet
You’ve never turned your heart from me, not even once
I don’t envy the softness of the dew the morning has
You’ve been kissing me gently with your tender lips
I don’t envy Monalisa’s wonderful smile Leonardo has
I’ve got one of mine on your face
I don’t envy the sweet sound a harp has
I’ve got a sweeter one when you whisper in my ears
I envy nothing but one
The way you love and make me feel this way
poem by Santi Dewi Sihombing
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love's Phases
Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
Oh, clasp him but gently,
Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
Inconsequently.
Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
Love hath the wings of the butterfly.
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
Cling to him strongly--
What if the look of the world be cold,
And life go wrongly?
Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.
Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
Hearken his trilling--
List to his song when the moonlight is pale,--
Passionate, thrilling.
Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
Love hath the voice of the nightingale.
Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
Wildly defiant.
Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
Tenderly pliant.
None shall regret him who heed him aright;
Love hath the voice of the storm at night.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Looks Of A Lover Enamoured
THOU, with thy looks, on whom I look full oft,
And find therein great cause of deep delight,
Thy face is fair, thy skin is smooth and soft,
Thy lips are sweet, thine eyes are clear and bright,
And every part seems pleasant in my sight;
Yet wote thou well, those looks have wrought my woe,
Because I love to look upon them so.
For first those looks allured mine eye to look,
And straight mine eye stirred up my heart to love;
And cruel love, with deep deceitful hook,
Choked up my mind, whom fancy cannot move,
Nor hope relieve, nor other help behoove
But still to look; and though I look too much,
Needs must I look because I see none such.
Thus in thy looks my love and life have hold;
And with such life my death draws on apace:
And for such death no med'cine can be told
But looking still upon thy lovely face,
Wherein are painted pity, peace, and grace.
Then though thy looks should cause me for to die,
Needs must I look, because I live thereby.
Since then thy looks my life have so in thrall
As I can like none other looks but thine,
Lo, here I yield my life, my love, and all
Into thy hands, and all things else resign
But liberty to gaze upon thine eyen:
Which when I do, then think it were thy part
To look again, and link with me in heart.
poem by George Gascoigne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ballad XII
Ever blessed be the day,
Be the place and be the dwelling,
That hath ended my delay,
Shown the truth I shrank from telling.
Dear friend, behold
My love is yours, a costlier gift than gold :
To Love be praise, that first the bond hath knit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
Since I yielded to thy sway
When thy heart with grief was swelling,
Swiftly speeding as he may
Joy is come, my care dispelling :
Now am I bold
To give thee love, that guerdons manifold
May heal thee from thy sorrow every whit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
So my soul, with God for stay,
The new blissful years foretelling,
Finds in thee, for whom I pray,
Grace and gladness all excelling.
I that of old
Gave thee but sorry cheer and comfort cold,
Am straightway turned to serve thee, as is fit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
When I had told
My love, my heart was yours to have and hold :
To grief I yield not, nor to blame submit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
poem by Christine de Pizan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Elegy II: The Anagram
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee
Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee,
For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great,
Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeat,
Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough,
And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough;
What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,
Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead.
Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe
Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe.
If red and white and each good quality
Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.
In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there
Be muske and amber in it, but not where.
Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place,
She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.
If we might put the letters but one way,
In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay?
When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make
A perfect ſong, others will undertake,
By the ſame Gamut chang'd, to equall it.
Things ſimply good, can never be unfit;
She's faire as any, if all be like her,
And if none bee, then ſhe is ſingular.
All love is wonder; if wee juſtly doe
Account her wonderfull, why not lovely too?
Love built on beauty, ſoone as beauty, dies,
Chuſe this face, chang'd by no deformities;
Women are like Angels; the faire be
Like thoſe which fell to worſe; but ſuch as ſhee,
Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire:
'Tis leſſe griefe to be foule, then to'have beene faire.
For one nights revels, ſilke and gold we chuſe,
But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather uſe.
Beauty is barren oft; beſt huſbands ſay
There is beſt land, where there is fouleſt way.
Oh what a ſoveraigne Plaiſter will ſhee bee
If thy paſt ſinnes have taught thee jealouſie!
Here needs no ſpies, nor eunuches; her commit
Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmoſit.
When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne,
That durty fouleneſſe guards, and armes the towne:
So doth her face guard her; and ſo, for thee,
Which, forc'd by buſineſſe, abſent oft muſt bee,
Shee, whoſe face, like clouds, turnes the day to night,
Who, mightier thē the ſea, makes Moores ſeem white,
Who, though ſeaven yeares, ſhe in the Stews had laid,
A Nunnery durſt receive, and thinke a maid,
And though in childbeds labour ſhe did lie,
Midwifes would ſweare, 'twere but a tympanie,
Whom, if ſhee accuſe her ſelfe, I credit leſſe
Then witches, which impoſſibles confeſſe.
One like none, and lik'd of none, fitteſt were,
For, things in faſhion every man will weare.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Nature Of Love
What, pray tell's the nature of love?
Its myriad forms of grace?
Could it be less than God above,
Compressed to just one face?
One human soul adorned with flesh
That turns all heads nearby?
While like a trap meant to enmesh,
It's gentle as a sigh...
Beyond attraction's courtship spell,
Appreciation's there...
Accepting beauty not from Hell
But Heaven-sent with care...
Yet with great beauty duty comes!
Be wise and honour-bound!
Else beauty beckons then it numbs
And sorrows saunter round!
Those blessed with eyes that see this realm
Where earthly treasures bide,
Must not let beauty overwhelm
The soul that lives inside!
Forbid it, Lord, that love should take
Your place within our hearts!
That place reserved for goodness sake,
For love's more than its parts!
True love excels our wildest dreams,
Our fervent wishes, too...
Expressed in Jesus Christ, it seems,
Most pleasing unto You.
Teach us, o Lord, the finer things -
With blessings new and old!
No man on Earth needs angels' wings,
Just love as good as gold!
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
But A Matter Of Time
My beloved, upon this day of myriad amorous thought,
I shall attempt to convey what your love hath brought!
Bestowed unto me hath been days, beauteous and bright-
Whence even the Sun hath not been within my sight!
Days are rife with jollity, whence upon thee I ponder,
Many more, yet to come, in our life, of unending wonder!
Count me now, most fortuitous, my heart's elation abiding-
To thee, and all the world, this soul's capture, I am confiding!
As though I had wished upon a 1,000 stars, falling-
God hath answered this loving heart's calling;
He hath not just seen to my love's fitting requite,
He hath ensured I may love, with all my might!
Ne'er before, in time's hallowed history
Hath this greatest of emotion's enlightenment
Been anything but an unattainable mystery-
My loyalty to love, He did sight and sent
His most beloved beauty, His Angel, most highly regarded
To see fitting continuance of a love, many years ago, started!
God smiles upon me, each and every day-
Taken away so much pain, supplanted with this beauteous ray
Of resplendent beautificence, mine eyes have never seen-
As sikerly, in the world's annals, there hath ne'er been!
My life, entire, I could most certainly spend
To endeavor recompense, yet it would never end-
To honor you, proper, I shall surely strive, still,
With time's infinity, its only lasting rival!
Ne'er did I believe true love, as this, attainable-
As it was my own belief, I must be amenable
To love of another more than of self, heightened and true-
At a time most disbelieving of same, I found this, with you!
Time and distance mean naught, as now I know of your existence-
Shown to be hopelessly futile, is any form of resistance;
I was meant to become, for your consort, prime-
I now know my true love's avail is but a matter of time!
Maurice Harris,10 February 2010
poem by Maurice Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love
Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That doth prove the work of it.
Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.
There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;
Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare
Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.
Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn discard it.
poem by Nicholas Breton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
You break every cliché (a reply to Octavio Paz)
As I turn the magazine’s page
I see your lovely face
catching my eyes
like a morning glory opening
for the sun in a clear sapphire blue sky
and the glitter of your teeth
shines like a set of perfect pearls
and the lines beneath your dress
draws attention to your sheer beauty
and I write this poem to you
whose intelligence and character
I know from the times
that we have met
and I know that there is much more
to you, than photo perfect looks.
Far too many men view you
as just one more shallow head
and instead I know that your beauty
comes deep from your heart,
that it’s part of your soul
and that your integrity
makes you to break every cliché
and that your good humour
and sharp whit
makes you a pleasure to be with
and that you break
the frames that people set you in
by just being you.
[Reference: No More Clichés by Octavio Paz.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Recital Of My Heart's Glory
I am bereft of sentiment worthy of mine own wondrous emotion
As my verity, at long last, hath given cause for soul's devotion;
As though predestined, reality meets with my heart's fanciful intuition,
My oft-imagined, life-long somniation hath come to wonderful fruition!
Once, as a child I did glimpse same, yet 'twas fleeting, and I, not prime;
Now, as a man, I bear witness to this grace again-this beauty, sublime!
For every man or monad thought inviolable, there exists impuissance-
Mine hath the form of a dichotomy, as she exudes with pleasance!
Nary doth a moment fleet whence thought is not consumed with such-
Periodically, I must cause remind, lest I should think it all, too much!
All this, yet still, an adjoining hath not been, for years, score-
To muse, whensoever same comes again-all, and evermore!
Hath there ever been such an eminent, empyrean, story?
Lo, there hath been-and it is surely the recital of my heart's glory!
Maurice Harris,1 December 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Coridon to his Phillis
Alas my hart, mine eye hath wrongèd thee,
Presumptious eye, to gaze on Phillis face:
Whose heavenly eye no mortall man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phillis grace.
Poor Coridon, the Nimph whose eye doth moove thee,
Dooth love to draw, but is not drawne to love thee.
Her beautie, Nature's pride, and sheepheards praise,
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life:
Her matchlesse wit and grace, her fame displaies,
As if that love had made her for his wife.
Onely, her eyes shoote fierie darts to kill,
Yet is her hart as cold as Caucase hill.
My wings too weake to flye against the Sunne,
Mine eyes unable to sustaine her light,
My hart doth yeeld that I am quite undone,
Thus hath faire Phillis slaine me with her sight.
My bud is blasted, withred is my leafe
And all my corne is rotted in the sheafe.
Phillis, the golden fetter of my minde,
My fancie's Idoll, and my vitall power:
Goddesse of Nimphs, and honour of thy kinde,
This Age's Phoenix, Beautie's richest bower.
Poore Coridon for love of thee must die:
Thy beautie's thrall and conquest of thine eye.
Leave Coridon to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace:
For Phillis' lookes no harty love doo yeeld,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
Die Coridon, the spoile of Phillis' eye:
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!