Best Romantic Poetry Books Novels & Stories

Vernon had returned, looking exhausted. He was even holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. He walked toward me with no trace of guilt or remorse. "Avril, I brought you your favorite roses." Red roses represented sincere and passionate love. Right now, those flowers looked like a joke in Vernon's hands. I accepted the roses. Thinking that I was no longer angry, Vernon began to explain. "It's Peggy Cahill. She's been diagnosed with bone cancer. All she wants is to marry me.

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

He watched her, his gaze steady and unnervingly focused. “Tell me,” he said, breaking the silence she had fallen into. “Why Keats? Of all the poets who have wrestled with illicit yearning, why did you anchor your work to him?” Scarlett hesitated. No one had ever asked her that. “Because it’s raw. It’s not romantic, it’s obsession, the ache that overtakes you, the pain that feels necessary. It mirrors real life, doesn’t it?”

HEY GUYS, I'VE DECIDED TO START POSTING LITTLE POEMS WHICH I WROTE DURING THE COURSE OF WRITING THIS STORY. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. ROMANCE What is romance, yeah yeah yeah Where is romance Isn't it here? Is it a knight in shinning armor Can I ever see it? Can I ever experience it? I want my own romance With my most romantic fantasy Filled with dreams that May not come to pass But I can't stop fantasizing

I watch intently with my brows raised as he removes a sizable oil painting from its place on the wall, unveiling a hidden safe that had been seamlessly integrated into the structure. I pivot on my heel and survey the colossal collection of books that had escaped my memory until now. The tips of my fingers delicately graze the uppermost edges of the book spines as my eyes glide over the titles. My fingers hover over one book in particular. It's a book that is very improper in Alessandros’ collection. This book is a historical romance novel written by Sylvia Day. One of Roses’ all-time favourite authors. Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to slide the book out, “come here, tesoro.” I

“Like a red rose, your beauty is without the thorn. Your gentle voice could comfort anyone like a lullaby. With your warm embrace, the cold that one has will melt away. Darkness falls and the day will be there.” The melody is beautiful as the words speak for what he is having deep inside his heart. It might be a taboo, the greatest sin, and a stupid move for a lowly servant like him to have such affection towards the Maiden that he should never dare to even think about. Yet. “Silver and gold couldn’t be compared. The days will be gone by, but promises with you will stay with me. I harbor all the affection, and roses that are you. Darkness will fall and the light will smile. The joy that you

He hated her and for sure didn’t want her help. Once again, she walked to the same study room and thought of waiting for him while scanning the books. From fictional romance to nonfiction world’s reality, there are hundreds of books to engage the readers. Her finger senses the spine of books like she could feel the words inside it, reading them softly, when Samson entered the room quietly.

He calls for a waiter and we both place our orders before getting back to our discussion. "So tell me, what kind of traits do you like in a man? What's your idea of a perfect boyfriend?" He asks and I sigh a little, taking my time to think of the perfect answer. "Hmm... To be honest, I don't think there's anything like a perfect boyfriend cause there's no perfect human being in the world but I'll be honest, I used to have my own definition of a perfect man and a few years ago, I thought I had finally found him but he turned out to be the worst kind of man out there and now I no longer believe in wanting a perfect man."

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

Even when he stepped right on Jessy's hand and she cried out in pain, he never glanced at her. I watched him move and suddenly felt something tragic rise in my chest. This was the only time he ever looked at me while Jessy screamed. I longed for a love that chose me all these years… but I no longer want it. "Watch your words, Elsa! "We've been married for years. How can you just throw out the word like it means nothing? Aren't you afraid I might really agree to it?" His voice carried anger, but I smiled calmly. "What is there to be afraid of? All I'm concerned about is you not letting go."