It occurred to me after reading a report of Chelsea Clinton's wedding. Do you have a poem that means a lot to you and "someone"? The bride and groom said this one. I have always loved it.

The Life That I Have
The life that I have
Is all that I have
And the life that I have
Is yours

The love that I have
Of the life that I have
Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have
A rest I shall have
Yet death will be but a pause
For the peace of my years
In the long green grass
Will be yours and yours and yours.

Leo Marks

Just my opinion. But I think this is the best poem ever written, by the greatest poet in the English language.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

by T.S. Eliot


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven


Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats

Thanks for "J. Alfred Prufrock", I agree it is a wonderful poem. To me , though it is far removed from a love poem as such, although he regrets not finding love, he surely regrets more that he missed out on life and living because of his fears, mainly of dying. I wonder what people think?
As to "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven". beautiful, and a direct and very obvious love poem, and more what I meant .

OH_Lee ... oh! I have to agree. That is definitely (or at least one of) the greatest poems ever written.

Quote:

---

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

---

I could read that, and just that, forever and feel it differently each time. I bow to Eliot.

But as for actual "love" poems? They take on such different guises, don't they? My favorite poetess (in more modern terms ... I never did so good with the more historic ones when it came to "getting it") is Anne Sexton. This is a great piece of hers, and not a terribly traditional spin on *love*. But it's an honest one, I think. The last line wraps it up so beautifully/sadly?

"For My Lover, Returning To His Wife"

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound -
for the burying of her small red wound alive -
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call -
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

Yes, Dave, so right. I had forgotten how heart wrenching that last line is.

I'm with Tizzabelle on her choice. I love that particular poem.
This is what my sister read at my weddding:
Marriage is a promise of companionship
Of having someone to share all of life’s experiences

Marriage does not promise that there will not be any rough times,
Just the assurance that there will always be someone
Who cares and will help you through to better times.

Marriage does not promise eternal romance,
Just eternal love and commitment.
Marriage can’t prevent disappointments, disillusionment or grief,
But it can offer hope, acceptance and comfort.
Marriage can’t prevent you from making individual choices
Or shelter you from the world,
But it will reassure you that there is someone by your side who truly cares.

When the world hurts you and makes you feel vulnerable,
Marriage offers the promise that there will be someone waiting to listen, to console, to inspire.

Marriage is the joining of two people who share the promise that only marriage can make:
To share the sunshine and the shadows,
And to experience a richer, more fulfilling life because of it.

Gatsby: I've never read Anne Sexton before. That poem is beautiful. And, I might add, it has a few subtle allusions to Prufrock.

If you've ever heard songs by Crash Test Dummies, they also allude to Eliot's poetry, particularly Prufrock.

I wrote my senior thesis on The Wasteland, not because I like it more, but because there's just more to work with, and you need a minimum number of pages.

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie,
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson composed "Requiem" for his own burial, and it is engraved on his tomb in Samoa. John Wayne recited it over a fallen comrade in John Ford's "They Were Expendable" and I recited it at my father's funeral back in 2002. Its simplicity and restraint are major reasons for its being a special poem.

tjoeb};>

This is the poem that Leo Marks wrote for Violette Szabo when she went to France as a member for Special Operations Executive. He was a cryptographer amongst other things. It has always made me cry after reading and then watching 'Carve her Name with Pride'

This is by Banjo Paterson and is my favourite romantic poem


__________________________________________________


Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away,
Will your love as of old prove true?

For the looks may change, and the heart may range,
And the love be no longer fond;
Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies --
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.

'As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue' first published in The Bulletin, 1891.

____________________________________________________

One of my favourites: W.H. Auden's Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

----

It's not a happy love poem, but it never fails to affect me.

I think, arguably, 'The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock' is my favourite poem too - though not a love poem, as people have said. I really like this one - 'The Good-morrow',by John Donne - too.



I WONDER by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then?
But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?
T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we finde two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.

I love both Donne and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

I don't have my poetry books with me, but I'll bring them home tomorrow and find one of my favourites.

This is my favorite thread of all, I think !

Today, this one has been in my head and heart for the entirety of it. By Cornelius Eady:

THE DANCE

When the world ends,
I will be in a red dress.
When the world ends,
I will be in a smoky bar
.....on Friday night.
When the world ends,
I will be a thought-cloud.
When the world ends,
I will be steam in a tea kettle.
When the world ends,
I will be a sunbeam through
.....a lead window,
And I will shake like the
.....semis on the interstate,
And I will shake like the tree
.....kissed by lightning,
And I will move; the earth will move
.....too,
And I will move; the cities will move
.....too,
And I will move, with the remains of
.....my last paycheck in my pocket.
It will be Friday night
And I will be in a red dress,
My feet relieved of duty,
My body in free-fall,
Loose as a ballerina
.....in zero gravity,
Equal at last with feathers
.....and dust,
As the world faints and tumbles
.....down the stairs,
The jukebox is overtaken at last,
And the cicadas, under the eaves,
.....warm up their legs.


[By the way, he must have been loving an old woman who will maybe wear purple, perhaps, someday?]

Thank you Dave. It is , indeed, an incredibly wonderful poem.