Most Overrated Famous Love Poems
All of these poets have been put on a pedestal of greatness along with their collection of poems. Scholars force students to study them closely and find all meaning that the poet could have possibly thought or felt while writing their "masterpieces". But are they truly worthy of being placed on such a high pedestal? Who determines who is greater over the rest? How can anyone truly understand how the poet is really feeling while writing without pretending to dissect their brains?
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Here are a few examples of overrated famous love poems that maybe shouldn't be as acknowledged as they are. An example is Emily Dickinson. She was locked away in a room most of her life for crying out loud! She probably only "loved" people she saw walking outside her window--not to mention she was somewhat insane. Yet we still want to know what could have been felt to make those words be pulled together as they were. Why is it that we ignore the "somewhat insane" part? Couldn't it be possible that scholars just put too much thought into simple words that were just felt to be written?
by Emily Dickinson
That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved I did not love enough. That I shall love always, offer thee That love is life, And life hath immortality. This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.
by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
The Clod and the Pebble
by William Blake (1757-1827)
Love seeketh not Itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hells despair. So sang a little Clod of Clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet; But a Pebble of the brook, Warbled out these metres meet. Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to Its delight: Joys in anothers loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.
Life in a Love
by Robert Browning
Escape me? Never— Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear— It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed— But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up to begin again,— So the chase takes up one's life, that's all. While, look but once from your farthest bound, At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark, I shape me— Ever Removed!
Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
by Emily Dickinson
Wild nights--wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be our luxury! Futile the winds To heart in port-- Done with the compass, Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden-- As the sea! Might I moor, tonight, In thee!
A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest
by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs: A cheek is always redder Just where the hectic stings! Mirth is mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, "you're hurt" exclaim
I Held a Jewel
by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep The day was warm, and winds were prosy I said, "Twill keep" I woke - and chide my honest fingers, The Gem was gone And now, an Amethyst remembrance Is all I own Reluctance Robert Frost Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question "Whither?" Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
A Song Of Love
by Sidney Lanier (1842 - 1881)
Hey, rose, just born Twin to a thorn; Was't so with you, O Love and Scorn? Sweet eyes that smiled, Now wet and wild: O Eye and Tear- mother and child. Well: Love and Pain Be kinfolks twain; Yet would, Oh would I could Love again. Tell Me Not, Sweet, Richard Lovelace Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind For, from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith- embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this unconstancy is such As you too shall adore; For, I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.