Poesía Romántica Corta Novels & Stories

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,

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leant against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight;

On its touch to something, it dries. “Was it wrong to follow my desire? No.” She question herself. A vivid picture of her and Adrian as they always sat under the shade of the tree exhilarated by their love. In romanticism, they were the love birds after Romeo and Juliet. Christine would always hold him by his waist as she laid her bosom on his chest and raised her head at an angle of fixed degrees. A white eyes with black spots at the centre and always immobile. They swallowed each other's tongues as their heart delved to nourish their satisfaction. Adrian was a despot for her. His hand on a shoulder and the other on her thighs. They seemed in their world. They felt themselves on a beach. On

Roman was a gifted local poet who was great at writing poetry. Penny sized Roman up before gently saying, “Sir, please start your poetry recitation.” “Hmm.” Roman nodded. He took up the microphone and walked two steps forward on the stage before slowly reciting. “Autumn brings the winter breeze. “Three parts were bone-chilling. “Seven parts were moon-drinking. “Don’t be melancholic for the nights are sleepless and endless.” “Wow!” The entire crowd gasped and cheered. ‘Great poem. Such a great poem! He could create such a great poem in less than fifteen minutes. Roman really has a deep literature understanding and background!’

Lucien took a deep breath and gestured for the servants to place the gifts on the table beside him. The butler and servants quietly set the gifts down and left the room. Lucien stared at the pile of gifts on the table, his eyes clouded with darkness. It was at that moment that he noticed a piece of paper pressed beneath the stack. He pulled the paper out, ready to discard it, but the words on it suddenly caught his eye. The handwriting was delicate, just like Christina herself—always gentle and calm. No matter what difficulty she faced, she remained composed.

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

The whole book was in Russian but one of the poems had writing in the outer margin: I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light. In sorrow, when I felt unwell, Caught in the bustle, in a daze, I fell under your voice’s spell And dreamt the features of your face. Years passed and gales had dispelled My former hopes, and in those days, I lost your voice’s sacred spell, The holy features of your face. Detained in darkness, isolation,

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

My thumb hovered over the glowing [ROULETTE] icon, pulsing like a heartbeat waiting to be pressed. “I mean—what’s the point of being a protagonist if you don’t gamble once in a while?” Click. The moment I pressed it, my room dimmed. A faint pink light filled the space, and the familiar chime of the Romantic Roulette echoed like a love confession in an empty hallway. Hearts. Rose petals. The sound of jazz piano offbeat and a little too sensual for a boy lying on his bed in school uniform. “Oh, come on…” I muttered, but I couldn’t help grinning.

"At the bustling sound of the frost early in the morning, I woke up from my sleep and it was still pitch black I sat by myself and gazed through my window at the moonlight that grows darker I worry the flowers I picked aside for my beloved will start to wither Under the stars in the long, long night Only the unfinished night seems to be passing. I see my beloved face from within those weeping willows. Even if I look and look at her, I don't seem to get enough. Even if she's standing under the bright moon in the dead of the night, the shadow of my beloved would come into my yard. A matchless beauty is left within my heart."