Novel & Cerita Love Poems From Books

Brianna suddenly remembered poetry she once had read in a book: O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I; And I will love 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; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only love! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my love,

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.

The waves began to float harmoniously in his direction, and only stones did not allow them to get out of the sea surface. Opening the first page of the book, he began to greedily read it. Before his eyes, beautiful words filled with the spirit of old times floated. Gently plunging into poetry, he himself, without expecting it, suddenly began to read aloud, read aloud and solemnly. And with his voice, the waves, too, began to rage as if they made it clear that they were hearing him. What kind of verse it was and why with every word his heart fluttered, we do not understand. But one thing is certain, it was a verse about love.

How wonderful it is to have Noah holding a book, doing this kindness for me that goes against his nature. "I don't mind." "Which one?" "You choose," I say. He flips a few more pages, then settles on one. In his deep voice, I hear him read. "You say you love; but with a smile, cold as sunrise in September, As you were Saint Cupid's nun—/ And kept his weeks of Ember— O love me truly." "Keats was kind of romantic, don't you think?" "A poet par excellence." I cling closer to him, letting his scent fill my senses. "Go on."

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

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.

“Tell me!” I was so focused on his answer that I didn’t feel him pluck the book from my fingers before it was too late. “Yeats? Very appropriately Irish of you.” He flipped through the pages, as if he had all the time in the world to choose a poem. He then began to read: A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed: and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown.

together: If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die. Every word of it had been true then, and it would remain so always. END OF BOOK SIX

Furthermore, she thought that the man's calligraphy was beautiful. At that moment, Darryl sat by the study table and quietly wrote his calligraphy. Debra was beside him; she read a book of poetry. "Hmm?" Suddenly, Debra trembled. Her red lips parted as she said, "Can somebody tell me what love is supposed to be? That makes death a beauty as long as you're with me…" She recited the poem once again before she cocked her head and looked at Darryl in surprise. "Darryl, was this not the poem you wrote? Why would it be in this book of ancient poetry collection?

The Perfect day. Some say "True love is like a rare gem, once it is found, it can never be truly lost". As I look back on my life and my years of living in England, with the one who has always held my heart. I feel the faint heartache and yearning. I remember that day well, the last day of my life. I sat in my lounge chair, enjoying the cool air of a London morning, on my balcony, looking at my beautiful wife and with a warm feeling of contentment fill me. I still remember our words that morning, it will forever be in my soul.