Close Close Previous Poem Next Poem Follow Us on Twitter! Poem of the Day Award Follow Us on Facebook! Follow Us on Twitter! Follow Us on Pinterest! Follow Our Youtube Channel! Follow Our RSS Feed! envelope star quill

Lost Love Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Constancy by Colfax Burgoyne Harman
  2. The May After by Ada A. Mosher
  3. The Fisher's Wife by Susan Rhyce Beckwith
  4. Highland Mary by Robert Burns
  5. Thou Gloomy December by Robert Burns
  6. The Sea of Silence by Florence May Alt
  7. To One in Paradise by Edgar Allan Poe
  8. Estranged by Freeman E. Miller
  9. Remembrance by Emily Brontë
  10. My Woodland Bride by George Pope Morris
  11. Mariana by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
  12. Longing by Millie C. Pomeroy
  13. Color-Fires by Caroline Davenport Swan

  1. Constancy

    by Colfax Burgoyne Harman

    I ne'er can love another
    As long as life may stand.
    No maid the wide world over
    Shall hold this heart or hand.

    As long as life lasts still shall gleam
    My love's undying ember.
    I loved her in life's spring time,
    I love her in December.

    Tho I should wed another,
    No love could bless the tie.
    My heart pleads on forever,
    The grave makes no reply.

  2. The May After

    by Ada A. Mosher

    They say that it is May, and, dear, I see
    Abloom the lilac and the Judas-tree;
    And in the waking woodlands, fluttering,
    Like bevy of white butterflies awing.
    Glints here and there the dogwood's blossoming.
    But O, for all to me—'t is May to me
    No more than this worn picture, dear, is thee;
    Thee, whose warm cheek pressed close against mine own—
    May's image this—her soul with thine is flown.

    And May—why I remember, May was young—
    And now I stand these wildwood flowers among;
    But they are older than the forest trees—
    As old as earth is—I can see in these
    All of creation's withered centuries!
    Aye, they are parched and dry as desert sand—
    Grave-grass alone is young in this lone land—
    Ah, no, they thoughtless speak, beloved, who say,
    Forgetting thou art gone, that this is May.

  3. The Fisher's Wife

    by Susan Rhyce Beckwith

    Lonely, desponding—the gathering gloom
    Slowly filling the quiet room—
    Sits the fisher's wife, with disheveled hair;—
    What does she see in the darkness there?

    Outside, the breakers, with sullen dash
    Fling high their spray to the window-sash,
    That, by the fitful gleams of the moonlight thrown,
    Seems like prison-bars on her floor of stone.

    On this same night, ten years before,
    While the angry sea lashed the rock-bound shore,
    She, anxiously watching, trimmed her light;—
    And the waves were cold, and the moon was bright.

    "Set the light, my lass, by the cottage door,"
    Said the fisher that morn as he sought the shore;
    "The moon will be up when I come to-night;
    Her wake once crossed, I shall be all right."

    With earnest eye, since the waning day,
    She had followed the moon in her upward way,
    And her quivering wake on the midnight sea,
    If there the looked-for boat might be.

    'Mong the rocks, where shadows so darksomely hide,
    Where the sea-foam that wreathed them was gone with the tide
    With tight'ning hands o'er the sickening heart,
    With blanching cheek, and lips apart—
    Like a statue she stood, so cold and white,
    Searching, but vainly, into the night.

    A tiny form with outstretched hands,
    And pink feet glancing among the sands,
    And a baby voice—"Mamma, mamma!"
    But the merciless sea, shock after shock,
    Assaulting the solid towering rock
    With fearful echoes, re-echoing far,
    Swallows the cry;
    Did'st thou hear it not?


    There's a desolate heart and an empty cot.
    And that little form, uncoffined and white,
    Revealed by the gleams of the pale moonlight,
    As pulseless it lay on the surf-washed shore,
    Shall rest on her memory evermore.

    'Tis this she sees in that quiet room,
    Where all is wrapped in the gathering gloom;
    And alone—God help her! she sits apart,
    With folded hands and a broken heart!

  4. Highland Mary

    by Robert Burns

    Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
    The castle o' Montgomery,
    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
    Your waters never drumlie!
    There Simmer first unfald her robes,
    And there the langest tarry:
    For there I took the last Fareweel
    O' my sweet Highland Mary.

    How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
    How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
    As underneath their fragrant shade,
    I clasp'd her to my bosom!
    The golden Hours, on angel wings,
    Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
    For dear to me as light and life
    Was my sweet Highland Mary.

    Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
    Our parting was fu' tender;
    And pledging aft to meet again,
    We tore oursels asunder:
    But Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
    That nipt my Flower sae early!
    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
    That wraps my Highland Mary!

    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
    I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
    And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance,
    That dwalt on me sae kindly!
    And mouldering now in silent dust,
    That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
    But still within my bosom's core
    Shall live my Highland Mary.

  5. Thou Gloomy December

    by Robert Burns

    Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
    Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care:
    Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
    Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.
    Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure,
    Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
    But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!
    Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.

    Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
    'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,
    Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
    Since my last hope and last comfort is gone!
    Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
    Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
    For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
    Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.

  6. The Sea of Silence

    by Florence May Alt

    When between us two there rolled
    Wide Atlantic's sea,
    Ships too frail thy love to hold
    Brought thy words to me.
    Though thy letters few and far
    Crost a burning zone,
    Yet thy love rose like a star—
    I was not alone.

    When the white sails westward flew,
    "What are seas?" I cried;
    "What but ribbons broad and blue,
    That the gods have tied."
    Though across Pacific's sea,
    Drifted wrecks were blown,
    Still thy letters came to me—
    I was not alone.

    But today we met—behold,
    In the narrow street;
    And the Sea of Silence rolled
    To our ver feet.
    Not a smile to cross the space,
    Not a tender tone;
    I, while looking in thy face,
    Knew I was alone.

  7. To One in Paradise

    by Edgar Allan Poe

    Thou wast that all to me, love,
    For which my soul did pine—
    A green isle in the sea, love,
    A fountain and a shrine,
    All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
    And all the flowers were mine.

    Ah, dream too bright to last!
    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
    But to be overcast!
    A voice from out the Future cries,
    “On! on!”—but o’er the Past
    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
    Mute, motionless, aghast!

    For, alas! alas! with me
    The light of Life is o’er!
    No more—no more—no more—
    (Such language holds the solemn sea
    To the sands upon the shore)
    Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
    Or the stricken eagle soar!

    And all my days are trances,
    And all my nightly dreams
    Are where thy grey eye glances,
    And where thy footstep gleams—
    In what ethereal dances,
    By what eternal streams.

  8. Estranged

    by Freeman E. Miller

    Though far apart, my darling, side by side
    We wander still and our fond yearnings meet,
    As when our hearts with highest raptures beat
    Before our footsteps trod the paths of pride;
    Our close companionship hath never died;
    True love and trust are always fair and sweet,
    And time from life's best hopes can never hide
    A kindred soul that made its own complete!
    So thou, dear one, shalt come once more to me,
    The sweeter grown for all thy years of pain;
    My longing arms shall open wide for thee,
    And thou shalt nestle on my breast again;
    Then perfect love shall richly crown the years,
    And both be better for our griefs and tears.

  9. Remembrance

    by Emily Brontë

    Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
    Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
    Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
    Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

    Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
    Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
    Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
    Thy noble heart forever, ever more?

    Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
    From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
    Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
    After such years of change and suffering!

    Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
    While the world's tide is bearing me along;
    Other desires and other hopes beset me,
    Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

    No later light has lightened up my heaven,
    No second morn has ever shone for me;
    All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
    All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

    But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
    And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
    Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
    Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

    Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
    Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
    Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
    Down to that tomb already more than mine.

    And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
    Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
    Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
    How could I seek the empty world again?

  10. My Woodland Bride

    by George Pope Morris

    Here upon the mountain-side
    Till now we met together;
    Here I won my woodland bride,
    In flush of summer weather.
    Green was then the linden bough,
    This dear retreat that shaded;
    Autumn winds are round me now,
    And the leaves have faded.

    She whose heart was all my own,
    In this summer-bower,
    With all pleasant things has flown,
    Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
    But her memory will stay
    With me, though we're parted—
    From the scene I turn away,
    Lone and broken-hearted!

  11. Mariana

    by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

    With blackest moss the flower-plots
    Were thickly crusted, one and all:
    The rusted nails fell from the knots
    That held the pear to the gable-wall.
    The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
    Unlifted was the clinking latch;
    Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
    Upon the lonely moated grange.
    She only said, "My life is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
    I would that I were dead!"

    Her tears fell with the dews at even;
    Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
    She could not look on the sweet heaven,
    Either at morn or eventide.
    After the flitting of the bats,
    When thickest dark did trance the sky,
    She drew her casement-curtain by,
    And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
    She only said, "The night is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
    I would that I were dead!"

    Upon the middle of the night,
    Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
    The cock sung out an hour ere light:
    From the dark fen the oxen's low
    Came to her: without hope of change,
    In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
    Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
    About the lonely moated grange.
    She only said, "The day is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
    I would that I were dead!"

    About a stone-cast from the wall
    A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
    And o'er it many, round and small,
    The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
    Hard by a poplar shook alway,
    All silver-green with gnarled bark:
    For leagues no other tree did mark
    The level waste, the rounding gray.
    She only said, "My life is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said "I am aweary, aweary
    I would that I were dead!"

    And ever when the moon was low,
    And the shrill winds were up and away,
    In the white curtain, to and fro,
    She saw the gusty shadow sway.
    But when the moon was very low
    And wild winds bound within their cell,
    The shadow of the poplar fell
    Upon her bed, across her brow.
    She only said, "The night is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said "I am aweary, aweary,
    I would that I were dead!"

    All day within the dreamy house,
    The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
    The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
    Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
    Or from the crevice peer'd about.
    Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
    Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
    Old voices called her from without.
    She only said, "My life is dreary,
    He cometh not," she said;
    She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
    I would that I were dead!"

    The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
    The slow clock ticking, and the sound
    Which to the wooing wind aloof
    The poplar made, did all confound
    Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
    When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
    Athwart the chambers, and the day
    Was sloping toward his western bower.
    Then said she, "I am very dreary,
    He will not come," she said;
    She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
    Oh God, that I were dead!"

  12. Longing

    by Millie C. Pomeroy

    Out from the tenement's highest row,
    Out from the broken and toppling blind
    I peer and whisper: I love you so—
    Pray, come tonight on the summer wind—
    Out from the throng of the angels there,
    Come to the maiden you used to know,
    With the lovely form and the wonderful hair;
    And a heart that thrills to the long ago.

    They say I am old and will soon be there;
    Each day is an age while I wait for you—
    Cheat fate a little and take me away
    Where the seeming is real and the false is true.
    Gather me swift from the form I wear,
    Our hearts will in deathless love entwine,
    Fulfill the edict of long ago
    That made me yours, as you are mine.

  13. Color-Fires

    by Caroline Davenport Swan

    September kindles the flame
    From an August sun;
    A burning-glass in her snow-white hand,
    Imperial grace of wide command,
    Lo! the blaze begun!―
    And Love, he watches the stately dame;
    His fires are kindled much the same.

    October feedeth the flame,―
    How it laughs and roars!―
    With ruddy maples, and elms that burn,
    And orange masses of sunlit fern,
    His golden stores.
    But Love remembers a fiercer claim;
    "My fires," quoth he, "put thine to shame."

    November buries the coals
    I' the sodden grass.
    His tremulous fingers all a-cold,
    He shivers across the silvery wold,
    As shadows pass.
    And Love is flying!―A sweet bell tolls.―
    O heap of ashes! O weary souls!

Related Poems

Follow Us On: