Love Poetry Novels & Stories

Master Graden had a collection of poetry books in his home library and she had read them during her free time. The poem was titled, "A Red, Red Rose" composed by Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns. It described the poet's deep love for his beloved and promised that his love would last longer than human life and even the planet itself, remaining fresh and constant forever. The words were so moving and Melissa felt her heart warmed instantly.

"This is our home! Selene isn't back yet, so I won't let you do this to our home! Tell me—where did she go? Tell me!" Seeing how frantic he was, the lawyer sighed and said, "Ms. Adkins left a message for you. She said, 'With my heart long dead, where does love belong? A heart that has been shattered can never be pieced back together—just like how a past flame cannot be rekindled.' "So… Mr. Langley, you should let go." Jacob felt as if a hole had been carved into his chest, the cold air stabbing at his lungs with unbearable pain. A wave of dizziness hit him just then, sending a shiver down his spine.

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."

And my breath catches. Peonies. Soft blush and white peonies spill from the bouquet arranged carefully in a crystal vase. For a moment, the entire office disappears. Because suddenly— I’m fourteen again. The Sterling estate is warm with late afternoon sunlight, the garden alive with color and the scent of flowers. Mrs. Sterling’s prized peonies bloom beside the stone pathway, full and delicate beneath the golden light. And there I am. Curled up on the grass with my sketchbook balanced on my knees.

I plopped my elbows on the table, all my attention now focused on her. "Love inspires art. Writing poetry or doing any form of art is like falling in love. You feel this intense feeling and adoration towards something or someone and you either turn them into actions, paint them into colors, into sweet melodies, or into woven poetry." My eyes lingered into the midnight of her orbs that seemed to glimmer with constellations. This must be how passion feels like. To talk about something with a glimmer in your eyes. This must be how passion feels like. To adore that glimmer.

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.

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She moves on quickly. The fresh air was just what I needed to clear my mind. I've never had so much drama in my life before. It was always just packed business and war, more pack business, homeschool Treena and more battle. I'm leaning over the balcony overlooking my mother's garden. Lily's, sunflowers and my mother's favourite gladiolas. The scent still lingers even in the cool fall evening. I am reminded of how my mother danced in this garden with Treena in her arms and my father drinking his coffee. I am lost in my own memories when the sweetest scent fillings my nose. Mate! I turn to see my beautiful Lucy standing in the doorway. "Am I ever going to get a birthday dance?" She gives me th

And when the first five words left his lips, I could not explain how I felt because somehow we prepared the same vow. 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 candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs and with my childhood faith

Ashes of love that remains mortal for a lifetime like the thoughts of a poet's lover. Those ashes, like the memories of a long-lost love, carry with them a certain melancholy beauty. They speak of a time when two hearts beat as one, of a time when every moment was filled with the sweetest of bliss. For though the flames may have died, the ashes of love will always remain, a reminder of what once was, and a promise of what could be once again. They are a symbol of hope, of the eternal nature of love, and of the enduring power of the human heart, and what lies next in the near future.