Cupid hides himself because he is a god, and also because he was ordered by Venus to kill Psyche but instead falls in love with her.
Why did Cupid hide his face to Psyche?Cupid is the minor god of falling in love. This is a big responsibility, and he wanted Psyche to love him not for his godly good-looks but for his love and dedication.
Why did Eros not want Psyche?When, they were saying goodbye, they two evil women told Psyche that her husband must be the awful snake that the oracle of Delphi had told her husband. That is why he doesnt allow you to see him. Because he knows that if you see him, you will disgust in his sight and leave him forever.
What does Cupid do after Psyche exposes his identity?What happens when Cupid goes to punish Psyche? He puts the bitter then sweet water of Venus over he and then pokes her with his arrow. He then accidentally pokes himself with his own arrow when he looks at her blue eyes.
What does Cupid do when he sees Psyche?When he finds Psyche, he draws the sleep from her face and replaces it in the box, then pricks her with an arrow that does no harm. He lifts her into the air, and takes her to present the box to Venus.
What are the consequences of Psyches betrayal?Ultimately, Psyches betrayal results in both she and her husband living in eternal bliss. In the end, it seems like the tale of Cupid and Psyche presents a pretty complicated picture of the relationship between love and betrayal.
How does the myth of Cupid and Psyche end?Olympus, the home of the gods, and gives her some ambrosia, which makes the girl immortal. At long last, Cupid and Psyche get to be together. Cupid and Psyche end up having a daughter together, named Voluptas (a.k.a. Hedone, sometimes translated as Pleasure).
The Best Erotic Poems of All Time Naughty, Risque, Sexy, Tantalizing, Graphic The Best Erotic Poems of All Time: Naughty, Risqué, Sexy, Tantalizing, Some Graphic The following erotic poems are among the very best in the English language some via translation. If passion and eroticism are leading you to marriage, we also have a great collection of.
Sappho of Lesbos, the first great poet of the erotic, is this page's Muse. Gleyre Le Coucher de Sappho by Marc-Charles-Gabriel Gleyre Sappho, fragment 155 loose translation by A short revealing frock? It's just my luck your lips were made to mock! Sappho, fragment 42 loose translation by Eros harrows my heart: wild winds wh ipping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks. I fell in love with the erotic little numbers above many years ago, and ended up translating them myself.
In the second poem, Sappho of Lesbos conveys the elemental nature of Eros, the Greek god of sexual love and lust. Interestingly, Eros was the son of Aphrodite the goddess of love and Ares the god of war! And in this poem love does sound like a battlefield, to borrow a phrase from Pat Benatar.
I believe Sappho is telling us that she can't always control the way she feels, or what happens when she falls in love or lust. Oscar Wilde said that he could resist everything but temptation. William Blake opined that only people with weak passions can control them. Thus, some of the world's best poets seem to agree that lust is a force beyond our ability to resist!
Many of these poems are subtly or tantalizingly sexual —naughty or risqué—rather than overtly graphic. The Perfect Courtesan by after Baudelaire, for the courtesans She received me into her cavities, indulging my darkest depravities with such trembling longing, I felt her need.
Such was the d alliance to which we agreed— she, my high rider; I, her wild steed. She surrendered her all and revealed to me— the willing handmaiden, delighted to please, the Perfect Courtesan of Ecstasy. Erotic poems come in all shapes, sizes and forms: haiku, tanka, epigrams, sonnets, free verse, etc.
These are the perfect gifts for Valentines Day, birthdays and other special occasions. And would it surprise you to know that 3,000 years ago women were writing provocative poems about enticing their lovers with short, revealing frocks, slips and see-through swimwear?
Yes, we have some of the world's most ancient porn here, of the high-class variety. These were educated women: poets, priestesses and royals. Also, please be sure to check out our ancient Mayan, Egyptian and Greek love poems.
If you'd like to entice or impress that special someone, we have a collection of free love poems that you can choose from, at. There are no fees, no ads and no gimmicks of any kind. We remain fans of the days when things were actually free on the Internet. Servitude by The church was dim at vespers. My eyes were on the Rood. But yet I felt thee near me, In every drop of blood.
In helpless, trembling bondage My soul's weight lies on thee, O call me not at dead of night, Lest I should come to thee! Anne Reeve Aldrich has been called an American Sappho.
She may be the best erotic poet no one knows today. You can find more of her poems by clicking her name. Here are three more erotic numbers by the original Sappho. Sappho, fragment 50 loose translation by Eros, the limb-shatterer, rattles me, an irresistible constrictor. Sappho, fragment 10 loose translation by I lust! The best erotic poets include the Archpoet, Basho, William Blake, Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her husband Robert Browning, Lord Byron, Catullus, Lucille Clifton, Colette, Hart Crane, H.
Eliot, Allen Ginsberg, Hafiz, Robert Herrick, Horace, D. Vincent Millay, Pablo Neruda, Anaïs Nin, Ovid, Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, Rumi, George Sand, Sappho, Shakespeare, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Walt Whitman, Thomas Wyatt and William Butler Yeats. Please keep in mind that the rankings below are one person's opinion, for whatever that's worth. Robert Herrick was also an ordained minister, and the vicar of Dean Prior in Devonshire.
Sappho may have been a priestess of the love goddess Aphrodite. Thus there seems to be a very close and intimate connection between sexuality and spirituality. Le Balcon The Balcony by Charles Baudelaire loose translation by Paramour of memory, ultimate mistress, source of all pleasure, my only desire; how can I forget your ecstatic caresses, the warmth of your breasts by the roaring fire, paramour of memory, ultimate mistress?
Each night illumined by the burning coals we lay together where the rose-fragrance clings— how soft your breasts, how tender your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things, each night illumined by the burning coals. Night thickens around us like a wall; in the deepening darkness our irises meet. I drink your breath, ah! I have found porn sites and escort services using my Baudelaire translation, so the pros seem to like it!
Les Bijoux The Jewels by Charles Baudelaire loose translation by My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems; Her art was saving men despite their sins— She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems! She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, My world of stone and metal sparking bright; I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair— Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite!
Naked she lay and offered herself to me, Parting Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? legs and smiling receptively, As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea— Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly.
A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent. Intent on lust, content to purr and please! Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent An odd charm to her metamorphoses. Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs, Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan, Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes; Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone.
Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously Out-thrust, and yet. As if stout haunches of Antiope Had been grafted to a boy. The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out. Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud; Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt, It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood.
I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless, this dress, so no one has to guess what's underneath. I want to walk down the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store with all those keys glittering in the window, past Mr.
Wong selling day-old donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. I want to walk like I'm the only woman on earth and I can have my pick. I want that red dress bad. I want it to confirm your worst fears about me, to show you how little I care about you or anything except what I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment from its hanger like I'm choosing a body to carry me into this world, through the birth-cries and the love-cries too, and I'll wear it like bones, like skin, it'll be the goddamned dress they bury me in.
Cunt, while you weep and seep neediness all night, ass has claimed what would bring you delight. The lovely maidens beam; their hearts leap in their breasts. Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
The Deflowering excerpt from a Mayan love poem translated by Remove your clothes; let down your hair; become as naked as the day you were born — virgins! To a Dark Moses by Lucille Clifton you are the one i am lit for. Come with your rod that twists and is a serpent. The Tally by Hafiz an extremely loose translation by Lovers don't reveal all their Secrets. For what is better than embracing and fondling when you visit me and we surrender to delights? Are you ruled by your belly?
Will you leave me because you need something to wear? I have chests full of fine linen! I glory in the hours of our embracings; my joy is incalculable! The thrill of your love spreads through my body like honey in water, like a drug mixed with spices, like wine mingled with water. Oh, that you would speed to see your sister like a stallion in heat, like a bull to his heifer!
Can I coax you to wade in with me? To let the cool water surround us? See how my fingers caress it, slipping down its sides, then inside! I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes. Come slowly, Eden by Emily Dickinson Come slowly—Eden Lips unused to thee— Bashful—sip thy jasmines— As the fainting bee— Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums— Counts his nectars—alights— And is lost in balms!
Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson Wild nights—Wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile—the winds— To a Heart in port— Done with the Compass— Done with the Chart! Rowing in Eden— Ah—the Sea! Might I but moor—tonight— In thee! Negligibles by Show me your most intimate items of apparel; begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip. Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, Oh, how that glittering taketh me! Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction— An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher— A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly— A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat— A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility— Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Elizabethan Madrigal My love in her attire doth show her wit, it doth so well become her.
Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? every season she hath dressings fit, for Winter, Spring, and Summer. Arrival by William Carlos Williams And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind. Warming Her Pearls by Warming her pearls, her breasts gleam like constellations. Her belly is a bit rotund. I, Being Born a Woman, and Distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay I, being born a woman, and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body's weight upon my breast: So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, this poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn with pity — let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again.
Ironic Poem About Prostitution by George Orwell Eric Arthur Blair When I was young and had no sense In far-off Mandalay I lost my heart to a Burmese girl As lovely as the day. The Floating Poem, Unnumbered by Adrienne Rich Whatever happens with us, your body will haunt mine—tender, delicate your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond of the fiddlehead fern in forests just washed by sun.
Your traveled, generous thighs between which my whole face has come and come— the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there— the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth— your touch on me, firm, protective, searching me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers reaching where I had been waiting years for you in my rose-wet cave—whatever happens, this is.
Why do you tantalize me thus? O why sting me for a swift moment only? Why can you not continue? O why do you now cease? Is it because, if you continued beyond the swift moment, you would soon certainly kill me? The Raiment We Put On by Kelly Cherry Do you remember? We were in a room With walls as warm as anybody's breath, And music wove us on its patterning loom, The complicated loom of life and death. Your hands moved over my face like small clouds.
Rain fell into a river and sank, somewhere. I moved among your fingers, brushed by the small crowds Of them, feeling myself known, everywhere, And in that desperate country so far from here, I heard you say my name over and over, Your voice threading its way into my ear.
I will spend my days working to discover The pattern and its meaning, what you meant, What has been raveled and what has been rent. Three Short Poems by Matsuo Basho A sturdy oak In the plum orchard, Totally indifferent To the blossoms. Not knowing The name of the tree, I stood in the flood Of its sweet smell.
Having sucked deep In a sweet peony, A bee creeps Out of its hairy recesses. My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee, To its own ceaseless cry—'Alone, alone! All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to you, Cynara!
I have forgot much, Cynara! I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! Time in Eternity by When you were as an angel in my arms, Had laid your bare head just below my chin, Your length pressed up to mine, entrusting charms My whole youth's starward longing could not win; With still the murmur of your love in me, Miracle-tones of all my lifelong hope, I wished that there might start eternity And seal forever that sweet envelope; And as it did, my thoughts are now for you As every star is blotted by the sun, And so the sun itself Has perished too, And with it, every dream of mine But one.
But not your wish or mine can quite yet make that so: When will your soul-husk lust enough to know to crack and writhe true flesh free from my thought? Love and Sleep by Algernon Charles Swinburne Lying asleep between the strokes of night I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened amorously, and said— I wist not what, saving one word—Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth, And all her body pasture to mine eyes; The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire. At the Touch of You by Witter Bynner At the touch of you, As if you were an archer with your swift hand at the bow, The arrows of delight shot through my body. You were spring, And I the edge of a cliff, And a shining waterfall rushed over me.
Gloire de Dijon by D. Lawrence When she rises in the morning I linger to watch her; She spreads the bath cloth underneath the window And the sunbeams catch her Glistening white on the shoulders, While down her sides the mellow Golden shadow glows as She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts Sway like full blown yellow Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and falling roses, and I listen For the sluicing of their rain dishevelled petals. In the window full of sunlight Concentrates her golden shadow Fold on fold, until it glows as Mellow as the glory roses.
A Courtesan's Love Lyric by Veronica Franco loose translation by My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts if only you give me the one that lifts me laughing.
And though it costs you nothing, still it is of immense value to me. Your reward will be not just to fly but to soar, so high that your joys vastly exceed your desires. And my beauty, to which your heart aspires and which you never tire of praising, I will employ for the raising of your spirits.
Then, lying sweetly at your side, I will shower you with all Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? delights of a bride, which I have more expertly learned. Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? you who so fervently burned will at last rest, fully content, fallen even more deeply in love, spent at my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom, becoming completely free with the man who loves and enjoys me. In A Gondola by Robert Browning The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made me believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
Kiss me as if you enter'd gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? disallow The claim, so all is render'd up, And passively its shatter'd cup Over your head to sleep I bow. Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? grain, treasure spilled near the shrub-pines to bleach on the boulders: your stalk has caught root among wet pebbles and drift flung by the sea and grated shells and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread, fire upon leaf, what meadow yields so fragrant a leaf as your bright leaf? Song of Solomon attributed to King Solomon I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor wake my love, till he please.
The voice of my beloved! My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.
Voyages by Hart Crane I Above the fresh ruffles of the surf Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand. They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks, And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed Gaily digging and scattering. And in answer to their treble interjections The sun beats lightning on the waves, The waves fold thunder on the sand; And could they hear me I would tell them: Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? brilliant kids, frisk with your dog, Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached By time and the elements; but there is a line You must not cross nor ever trust beyond it Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
cordage of your bodies to caresses Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast. The bottom of the sea is cruel. And onward, as bells off San Salvador Salute the crocus lustres of the stars, In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,— Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal, Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours, And hasten while her penniless rich palms Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,— Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire, Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe. And so, admitted through black swollen gates That must arrest all distance otherwise,— Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments, Light wrestling there incessantly with light, Star kissing star through wave on wave unto Your body rocking!
All fragrance irrefragably, and claim Madly meeting logically in this hour And region that is ours to wreathe again, Portending eyes and lips and making told The chancel port and portion of our June— Shall they not stem and close in our own steps Bright staves of flowers and quills today as I Must first be lost in fatal tides to tell? In signature of the incarnate word The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown And widening noon within your breast for gathering All bright Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
that my years have caught For islands where must lead inviolably Blue latitudes and levels of your eyes,— In this expectant, still exclaim receive The secret oar and petals of all love. V Meticulous, past midnight in clear rime, Infrangible and lonely, smooth as though cast Together in one merciless white blade— The bay estuaries fleck the hard sky limits. The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed, Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars. What words Can strangle this deaf moonlight?
Now no cry, no sword Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge, Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved And changed. But now Draw in your head, alone and too tall here. Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam; Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know: Draw in your head and sleep the long way home. The imaged Word, it is, that holds Hushed willows anchored in its glow. It is the unbetrayable reply Whose accent no farewell can know.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. Wulf's on one island; I'm on another. His island is fast, surrounded by fens. There are fierce men on this island. They'll rip him apart if he approaches Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
pack. My heart pursued Wulf' like a panting hound. Whenever it rained and I wept, disconsolate, the bold warrior came: he took me in his arms. For me, there was pleasure, but its end was loathsome. Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your infrequent visits have left me famished, deprived of real meat! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods. One can easily sever what never was one: our song together. To Earthward by Robert Frost Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of — was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Downhill at dusk?
I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young: The petal of the rose It was that stung. Now no joy but lacks salt, That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
When stiff and sore and scarred I take Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? my hand From leaning on it hard In grass or sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.
Auden Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm: Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. Soul and body have no bounds: To lovers as they lie upon Her tolerant enchanted slope In their ordinary swoon, Grave the vision Venus sends Of supernatural sympathy, Universal love and hope; While an abstract insight wakes Among the glaciers and the rocks The hermit's carnal ecstacy.
Certainty, fidelity On the stroke of midnight pass Like vibrations of a bell And fashionable madmen raise Their pedantic boring cry: Every farthing of the cost.
All the dreaded cards foretell. Shall be paid, but from this night Not a whisper, not a thought. Not a kiss nor look be lost. Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough; Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.
La Figlia Che Piange The Weeping Girl by T. Eliot Stand on the highest pavement of the stair — Lean on a garden urn — Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair — Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise — Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? the body it has used. I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. They Flee from Me by Thomas Wyatt They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle tame and meek That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; And therewithal sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?
It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved.
When You Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Old by William Butler Yeats When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest. My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed, For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.
The Indian Serenade by Percy Bysshe Shelley I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me—who knows how? To thy chamber window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream And the champak's odours pine Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, O belovèd as thou art!
O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O press it to thine own again, Where it will break at last! Merrill for suggesting the inclusion of the poem above. Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
Our thanks to Michael Bennett for suggesting the inclusion of the poem above. To The Virgins, to Make Much Of Time by Robert Herrick Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting; The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
To Celia by Ben Jonson Drink to me, only, with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st back to me: Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. The Turtle by Ogden Nash The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks Which practically conceal its sex. I think it clever of the turtle In such a fix to be so fertile.
To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, Until I labour, I in labour lie. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime, Tells me from you, that now it is bed time. Off Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be. Then since that I may know; As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence, There is no penance due to innocence. To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What needst thou have more covering than a man. I had all that I would.
The bailey beareth the bell away; The lily, the rose, the rose I lay. The silver is white, red is the gold; The robes they lay in fold. The bailey beareth the bell away; The lily, the rose, the rose I lay. And through the glass window shines the sun. How should I love, and I so young? The bailey beareth the bell away; The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
True Love by Robert Penn Warren In silence the heart raves. It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed, Freckled. In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something Through a straw. There is nothing like Beauty. It Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath. I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched. I thought I would die if she saw me. How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me. I thought I would wake up dead. Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen. Told jokes in the barbershop. Their father was what is called a drunkard. Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years. They brought everything up to him. I did not know what a mortgage was. His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.
When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing. There were Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.
I thought I would cry. I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her. That last word was whispered. The family Sort of drifted off. Nobody wears shiny boots like that now. But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away. She called my name once. I didn't even know she knew it.
Whoso List to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, alas! The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.
I leave off therefore, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
hold, though I seem tame. In May 1536, Wyatt was imprisoned in the Tower of London for allegedly committing adultery with Anne Boleyn. He was released from the Tower later that year, thanks to his friendship and his father's friendship with Thomas Cromwell. But during his stay in the Tower, Wyatt may have witnessed the execution of Anne Boleyn from his cell window, and the executions of the five other men with whom she was accused of committing adultery.
A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns Oh my luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: Oh my luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile! Sudden Light by Dante Gabriel Rossetti I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,— How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more? I Am Vertical by Sylvia Plath But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal And a flower-head not tall, but more startling, And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring. Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars, The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing. Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping I must most perfectly resemble them — Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down. Then the sky and I are in open conversation, And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
Winter Nights by Thomas Campion Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours, And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o'erflow with wine; Let well-tuned words amaze With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love, While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep's leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers' long discourse; Much speed hath some defence, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights. Enthralled by Alfred Bryan Teach me to sin— In love's forbidden ways, For you can make all passion pure; The magic lure of your sweet eyes Each shape of sin makes virtue praise.
Teach me to sin— Enslave me to your wanton charms, Crush me in your velvet arms And make me, make me love you. Make me fire your blood with new desire, And make me kiss you—lip and limb, Till sense reel and pulses swim. Sappho to Philænis by John Donne Where is that holy fire, which verse is said To have? Only thine image in my heart doth sit, But that is wax, and fires environ it. Dwells with me still mine irksome memory, Which, both to keep and lose, grieves equally. For if we justly call each silly man A little world, what shall we call thee then?
Thou art not soft, and clear, and straight, and fair, As down, as stars, cedars, and lilies are; But thy right hand, and cheek, and Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, only Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye. Such was my Phao awhile, but shall be never, As thou wast, art, and O, mayst thou be ever. Here lovers swear in their idolatry, That I am such; but grief discolours me. And yet I grieve the less, lest grief remove My beauty, and make me unworthy of thy love.
Plays some soft boy with thee, O, there wants yet A mutual feeling which should sweeten it. His chin, a thorny, hairy unevenness Doth threaten, and some daily change possess. Thy body is a natural paradise, In whose self, unmanured, all pleasure lies, Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou then Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man? Men leave behind them that which their sin shows, And are as thieves traced, which rob when it snows.
But of our dalliance no more signs there are, Than fishes leave in streams, or birds in air; And between us all sweetness may be had, All, all that nature yields, or art can add. My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two But so, as thine from one another do, And, O, no more; the likeness being such, Why should they not alike in all parts touch?
Hand to strange hand, lip to lip none denies; Why should they breast to breast, or thighs to thighs? Likeness begets such strange self-flattery, That touching myself all seems done to thee. Myself I embrace, and mine own hands I kiss, And amorously thank myself for this. Me, in my glass, I call thee; but alas, When I would kiss, tears dim mine eyes and glass.
O cure this loving madness, and restore Me to thee, thee my half, my all, my more. The Vine by Ovid translated by Christopher Marlowe I dreamed this mortal part of mine Was metamorphosed to a vine, Which crawling one and every way Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did surprise; Her belly, buttocks, and her waist By my soft nervelets were embraced. About her head I writhing hung, And with rich clusters hid among The leaves her temples I behung, So that my Lucia seemed to me Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl, And arms and hands they did enthrall, So that she could not freely stir All parts there made one prisoner. But when I crept with leaves to hide Those parts which maids keep unespied, Such fleeting pleasures there I took That with the fancy I awoke; And found ah me! Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast Have you beheld with much delight A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry double graced Within a lily? Or ever marked the pretty beam, A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast. There is a lady Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? and kind by Thomas Ford There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleas'd my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice, Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die. Her free behaviour, winning looks, Will make a lawyer burn his books; I touch'd her not, alas!
Had I her fast betwixt mine arms, Judge you that think such sports were harms, Were't any harm? Should I remain confined there So long as Phœbus in his sphere, I to request, she to deny, Yet would I love her till I die. Cupid is winged and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet will I love her till I die.
To put the world between us We parted, stiff and dry; 'Good-bye,' said you, 'forget me. If here, where clover whitens The dead man's knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone naming The heart no longer stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.
Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But today, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And today we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got.
The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb.
And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easily If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts.
Advice to a Girl by Sara Teasdale No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed; Lay that on your heart, My young angry dear; This truth, this hard and precious stone, Lay it on your hot cheek, Let it hide your tear. Hold it like a crystal When you are alone And gaze in the depths of the icy stone. Long, look long and you will be blessed: No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed. The Solitary by Sara Teasdale My heart has grown rich with the passing of years, I have less need Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
than when I was young To share myself with every comer Or shape my thoughts into words with my tongue. It is one to me that they come or go If I have myself and the drive of my will, And strength to climb on Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? summer night And watch the stars swarm over the hill.
Let them think I love them more than I do, Let them think I care, though I go alone; If it lifts their pride, what is it to me Who am self-complete as a flower or a stone. Afton Water by Robert Burns Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft, as mild Ev'ning sweeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides, How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light! The Sick Rose by William Blake O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold The sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! I Shall Not Care by Sara Teasdale When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now.
The Dark-Eyed Gentleman by Thomas Hardy I I pitched my day's leazings in Crimmercrock Lane, To tie up my garter and jog on again, When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said, in a way that made all o' me colour rose red, 'What do I see O pretty knee! Then bitterly Sobbed I that he Should ever have tied up my garter Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? me! To Daffodils by Robert Herrick Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon.
As yet the early-rising sun Hath not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing.
As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. Our thanks to Gail White for suggesting the inclusion of the poem above. Go, Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Rose by Edmund Waller Go, lovely Rose,— Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Anthony van Dyck
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir'd: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desir'd, And not blush so to be admir'd. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
My Sweet, Crushed Angel by Hafiz, as translated by Daniel Ladinsky You have not danced so badly, my dear, Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One. You have waltzed with great style, My sweet, crushed angel, To have ever neared God's heart at all. Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow, And even His best musicians are not always easy To hear. So what if the music has stopped for a while. So what, my dear, If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.
The mind and the body are famous For holding the heart ransom, But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits. Have patience, For He will not be able to resist your longing For Long. You have not danced so badly, my dear, Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style, O my sweet, O my sweet crushed angel. Bathsheba's Song by George Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair; Shine sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me; Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me: Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning, Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty's fire Inflame unstaid desire, Nor pierce any bright eye That wandereth lightly. Normalization by Czeslaw Milosz, as translated by Clare Cavanagh This happened long ago, before the onset of universal genetic correctness.
Boys and girls would stand naked before mirrors studying the defects of their structure. Nose too long, ears like burdocks, sunken chin just like a mongoloid. Breasts too small, too large, lopsided shoulders, penis too short, hips too broad or else too narrow. And just an inch or two taller! Such was the house they inhabited for life.
But somehow they still had to find a partner. Following incomprehensible tastes—airy creatures paired with potbellies, skin and bones enamored of salt pork.
Now every genetic error meets with such disgust that crowds might spit on them and stone them. As happened in the city of K. Just think of the torments, the anxieties, the sweat, the wiles needed to entice, in spite of all. Fires by Joseph Campbell The little fires that Nature lights — The scilla's lamp, the daffodil — She quenches, when of stormy nights Her anger whips the hill. The fires she lifts against the cloud — The irised bow, the burning tree — She batters down with curses loud, Nor cares that death should be.
The fire she kindles in the soul — The poet's mood, the rebel's thought — She cannot master, for their coal In other mines is wrought. Barter by Sara Teasdale Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder in a cup. Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.
Peace by Sara Teasdale Peace flows into me As the tide to the pool by the shore; It is mine forevermore, It ebbs not back like the sea. I am the pool of blue That worships the vivid sky; My hopes were heaven-high, They are all fulfilled in you.
I am the pool of gold When sunset burns and dies,— You are my deepening skies, Give me your stars to hold. Is My Team Plowing by A. Be still, my lad, and sleep. Love Is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain, Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink and rise and sink and rise and sink again. Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for release or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. I do not think I would. What Lips My Lips Have Kissed by Edna St. Vincent Millay What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. Not in a silver casket cool with pearls by Edna St.
Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison. John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey, Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty. It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky, All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.
Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? foot in the heather, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.
The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober, Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over. Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish, Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish. It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.
It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums, It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.
It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit. The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever, But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather. The Penitent by Edna St. As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep, My little Sin would go to sleep — To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night!
Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd. Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands. She Walks In Beauty by Lord Bryon She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! How Do I Love Thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!
Meeting at Night by Robert Browning The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
each to each! The Silken Tent by Robert Frost She is as in a field a silken tent At midday when the sunny summer breeze Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent, So that in guys it gently sways at ease, And its supporting central cedar pole, That is its pinnacle to heavenward And signifies the sureness of the soul, Seems to owe naught to any single cord, But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
ow'st; Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. I Knew A Woman by Theodore Roethke I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them; Ah, Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
she moved, she moved more ways than one: The shapes a bright container can contain! Of her choice virtues only gods should speak, Or English poets who grew up on Greek I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek. How well her wishes went!
She stroked my chin, She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand; She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin: I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand; She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake, Coming behind her for her pretty sake But what prodigious mowing did we make.
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize; She played it quick, she played it light and loose; My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees; Her Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
parts could keep a pure repose, Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose She moved in circles, and those circles moved. Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay: I'm martyr to a motion not my Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? What's freedom for? I swear she cast a shadow white as stone. But who would count eternity in days? These old bones live to learn her wanton ways: I measure time by how a body sways.
Who ever loved by Christopher Marlowe It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, We wish that one should love, the other win; And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: The reason no man knows; let it suffice What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? Heart, we will forget him by Emily Dickinson Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done pray tell me, Then I, my thoughts, will dim. A Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? invests a face by Emily Dickinson A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld. The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies, Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
I gave myself to him by Emily Dickinson I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way The value might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this my purchaser suspect, The daily own of Love Depreciates the sight; But, 'til the merchant buy, Still fabled, in the isles of spice The subtle cargoes lie. At least, 'tis mutual risk, Some found it mutual gain; Sweet debt of Life, each night to owe, Insolvent, every noon.
Farewell, Love by Thomas Wyatt Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever: Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more. Senec and Plato call me from thy lore, To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour. For, hitherto though I've lost my time, Me lusteth no longer rotten boughs to climb. Auden 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 forever: 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 woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh! Vincent Millay To what purpose, April, do you return again? You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. The Love Song of J. Eliot S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
In the room the Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? 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. In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? 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? 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 Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? That is not it, at all. 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— Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, at times, the Fool.
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.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage—— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?
tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health. His Confession by the Archpoet circa 1165; translated from the original Medieval Latin by Helen Waddell Seething over inwardly With fierce indignation, In my bitterness of soul, Hear my declaration. I am of one element, Levity my matter, Like enough a withered leaf For the winds to scatter.
Since it is the property Of the sapient To sit firm upon a rock, it is evident That I am a fool, since I Am a flowing river, Never under the same sky, Transient for ever. Hither, thither, masterless Ship upon the sea, Wandering through the ways of air, Go the birds like me. Bound am I by ne'er a bond, Prisoner to no key, Questing go I for my kind, Find depravity. Never yet could I endure Soberness and sadness, Jests I love and sweeter than Honey find I gladness.
Whatsoever Venus bids Is a joy excelling, Never in an evil heart Did she make her dwelling. Down the broad way do I go, Young and unregretting, Wrap me in my vices up, Virtue all forgetting, Greedier for all delight Than heaven to enter in: Since the soul is in me dead, Better save the skin. Pardon, pray you, good my lord, Master of discretion, But this death I die is sweet, Most delicious poison. Wounded to the quick am I By a young girl's beauty: She's beyond my touching?
Well, Can't the mind do duty? Hard beyond all hardness, this Mastering of Nature: Who shall say his heart is clean, Near so fair a creature? Young are we, so hard a law, How should we obey it? Sit you down amid the fire, Will the fire not burn you?
To Pavia come, will you Just as chaste return you? Pavia, where Beauty draws Youth with finger-tips, Youth entangled in her eyes, Ravished with her lips. Let you bring Hippolytus, In Pavia dine him, Never more Hippolytus Will the morning find him. In Pavia not a road But leads to venery Nor among its crowding towers One to chastity. Yet a second charge they bring: I'm forever gaming. Yea, the dice hath many a time Stripped me to my shaming. What an' if the body's cold, If the mind is burning, On the anvil hammering, Rhymes and verses turning?
Look again upon your list. Is the tavern on it? Yea, and never have I scorned, Never shall I scorn it, Till the holy angels come, And my eyes discern them, Singing for the dying soul, Requiem aeternam.
For on this my heart is set: When the hour is nigh me, Let me in the tavern die, With a tankard by me, While the angels looking down Joyously sing o'er me, Deus sit propitius Huic potatori.
Sweeter tastes the wine to me In a tavern tankard That the watered stuff my Lord Bishop has decanted. Let them fast and water drink, All the poets' chorus, Fly the market and the crowd Racketing uproarious. Sit in quiet spots and think, Shun the tavern's portal Write, and never having lived, Die to be immortal. Never hath the spirit of Poetry descended, Till with food and drink my lean Belly was distended, But when Bacchus lords it in My cerebral story, Comes Apollo with a rush, Fills me with his glory.
Unto every man his gift. Mine was not for fasting. Never could I find a rhyme With my stomach wasting. As the wine is, so the verse: 'Tis a better chorus When the landlord hath a good Vintage set before us.
Good my lord, the case is heard, I myself betray me, And affirm myself to be All my fellows say me. So there you have them: the best erotic poems ever, according to me. I'm sure every reader's choices will be different, but if you added a poem or three to yours, having read mine, hopefully you will consider your time here well spent.
Here are a few of my originals. The Effects of Memory by A black ringlet curls to lie at the nape of her neck, glistening with sweat in the evaporate moonlight. This is what I remember now that I cannot forget. And tonight, if I have forgotten her name, I remember: rigid wire and white lace half-impressed in her flesh.
Are You the Thief by When I touch you now, O sweet lover, full of fire, melting like ice in my embrace, when I part the delicate white lace, baring pale flesh, and your face is so close that I breathe your breath and your hair surrounds me like a wreath. Righteous by Come to me tonight in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising, spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer. Gather your hair and pin it up, knowing that I will release it a moment anon. We are not one, nor is there a scripture to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms, but the swarms of stars revolving above us revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.
Duet, Minor Key by Without the drama of cymbals or the fanfare and snares of drums, I present my case stripped of its fine veneer: Behold, thy instrument. Play, for the night is long. Once by Once when her kisses were fire incarnate and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame, when her breath rose and fell over smoldering Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, leaving me listlessly sighing her name. Once when her breasts were as pale, as beguiling, as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist, when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me all the while as her lips did more wildly insist.
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant, I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing that I vowed all Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? former vows to recant. Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche?, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed— this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
What Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? Around, Comes by This is a poem about loss so why do you toss your dark hair— unaccountably glowing? Now I am truly lost! In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself. Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101 by Building her brand, she disrobes, naked, except for her earlobes. Less Heroic Couplets: Sweet Tarts by Love, beautiful but fatal to many bewildered hearts, commands us to be faithful, then tempts us with sweets and tarts.
Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors by At six-thirty, feeling flirty, I put on the hurdy-gurdy. The moral of my story? To avoid a fate as gory, flirt with gals a bit more whore-y! First Base Freeze by Why does Cupid hide his face from Psyche? find your love unappealing make that appalling because you prefer kissing then stalling.
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced at your gayest lack of resistance, and, later, at your milktongued mewlings in the dark. When you were virginal, sweet as eucalyptus, we did not understand the miracle of repentance, and I took for granted your obsessive distance.