Romantic Poems 21

Epic & Romantic Poetry (21)

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On The Beach

by Myself

As I walk on to the beach,
Jane comes into view,
Waiting to meet me,
As her love is so true.

The soft sound of the tide
Can barely be heard,
The beach is deserted,
I hear not a word.

"I've been waiting for you"
Jane whispers to me,
With a loving sweet tone,
As she leans by a tree.

I hold her firm body,
Jane is mine to adore,
To love and to cherish,
Right here on the shore.

Her clothes are all scattered,
Just by the tree,
Her body runs naked,
To the wide open sea.

She emerges soon after,
Jane is my true delight,
A woman of passion,
A beautiful sight.

As I look softly at her,
Jane starts to fade,
The morning comes nearer,
With the lessening shade.

"I'll be here tomorrow"
Jane whispers to me,
I look till she fades,
And can no longer see.

I may now be quite old,
But young Jane is in reach,
The spirit of memory,
For me on the beach.

The Kept Woman

by Myself

Those years of secret meetings,
Always having to deceive;
At last the truth is realised,
Knowing what she must believe.

Sarah knew she was his lover,
And he was a married man.
"I'll leave her soon, my darling one,
Just as soon as I possibly can."

Sarah loved him, yes, she really did,
But to have him for her own.
The token visits made to her home,
Just weren't enough, she'd moan.

She sat upon his knee one day,
As he caressed her breast.
"Is this my life for good,
To cater for a guest?"

Sarah remembered then the lies he'd told,
And those said to his wife.
"How can I let this charade go on,
And stain upon my life?"

She rose up with force,
And opened up the door.
"Leave now!" the woman told him then,
"And return nevermore!"

"You'll miss me soon", he laughed out loud,
"A kept woman till you die."
"I'm free now" Sarah said with triumph,
"And can hold my head up high."

To Some Ladies

by John Keats

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
   I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
   Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiasts's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
   With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, it's passionate gushes,
   It's spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
   Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling,
   Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
   I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it -- you are stooping
   To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
   Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
   The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion
   Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
   Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
   (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
   In elegant, pure, and aeriel minds.