Famous Sad Love Poems - Page 2

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21. To A Young Girl

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet who lived from 1865-1936. He started out studying painting, but he found his true passion in poetry. In 1923, he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. In this poem, we can see how love can be tricky and complicated but still full of passion.

Famous Poem
- By William Butler Yeats
My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother

My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes
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22. What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why

Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem "What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why" delves into the poet's forgotten romantic encounters. The rain outside becomes a melancholic backdrop, filled with elusive memories and a sense of yearning. The speaker feels a quiet ache for the lovers who will never return, lost to time. The poem then shifts to a metaphor of a solitary winter tree, unaware of the departed birds. It reflects on the fleeting nature of love, leaving the speaker with only fragments of past romances. Ultimately, the poem encapsulates the wistful nostalgia and transience of love's impact on one's life.

Famous Poem
- By Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
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