Passion Poems | Best Famous Passion Poems


    Life’s Tragedy Poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    It may be misery not to sing at all,
    And to go silent through the brimming day;
    It may be misery never to be loved,
    But deeper griefs than these beset the way.

    To sing the perfect song,
    And by a half-tone lost the key,
    There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
    The pale, sad staring of Life’s Tragedy.

    To have come near to the perfect love,
    Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
    But that which lies aside its vanity,
    And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.

    This, this indeed is to be accursed,
    For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
    We count our joys not by what we have,
    But by what kept us from that perfect thing.



    Flower Of Love Poem by Oscar Wilde

    Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
    I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
    larger day.

    From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
    Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

    Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
    You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

    I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
    Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

    And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without
    And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of

    I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
    And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre’s strings are ever strung.

    Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
    With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in

    And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
    Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

    Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
    Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

    For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
    And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

    Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? –
    For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

    Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is
    Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

    And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the
    And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

    Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God’s own mother was less dear to me,
    And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

    I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in
    wasted days,
    I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better than the poet’s crown of bays.



    A White Rose Poem by John Boyle O’Reilly

    The red rose whispers of passion,
    And the white rose breathes of love;
    O, the red rose is a falcon,
    And the white rose is a dove.

    But I send you a cream-white rosebud
    With a flush on its petal tips;
    For the love that is purest and sweetest
    Has a kiss of desire on the lips



    Amor Intellectualis Poem by Oscar Wilde

    OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly
    And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
    From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
    And often launched our bark upon that sea
    Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
    And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
    Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
    Till we had freighted well our argosy.
    Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,
    Sordello’s passion, and the honied line
    Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
    Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
    The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
    And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.



    An Acrostic Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

    Elizabeth it is in vain you say
    ‘Love not’ — thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
    In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
    Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well:
    Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
    Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes.
    Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
    To cure his love — was cured of all beside —
    His folly — pride — and passion — for he died.



    Any Soul That Drank The Nectar Poem by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

    Any soul that drank the nectar of your passion was lifted.
    From that water of life he is in a state of elation.
    Death came, smelled me, and sensed your fragrance instead.
    From then on, death lost all hope of me.



    We Had Him Poem by Maya Angelou

    Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing
    Now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind

    Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace
    Sing our songs among the stars and and walk our dances across the face of the moon

    In the instant we learn that Michael is gone we know nothing
    No clocks can tell our time and no oceans can rush our tides
    With the abrupt absence of our treasure

    Though we our many, each of us is achingly alone
    Piercingly alone
    Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him

    He came to us from the Creator, trailing creativity in abundance
    Despite the anguish of life he was sheathed in mother love and family love and survived and did more than that

    He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style
    We had him
    Whether we knew who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his
    We had him

    Beautiful, delighting our eyes
    He raked his hat slant over his brow and took a pose on his toes for all of us and we laughed and stomped our feet for him

    We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing
    He gave us all he had been given

    Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana’s Blackstar Square, in Johannesburg, in Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama and Birmingham England, we are missing Michael Jackson

    But we do know that we had him
    And we are the world.



    Unfortunate Coincidence Poem by Dorothy Parker

    By the time you swear you’re his,
    Shivering and sighing,
    And he vows his passion is
    Infinite, undying –
    Lady, make a note of this:
    One of you is lying.



    The Great Fires Poem by Jack Gilbert

    Love is apart from all things.
    Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
    It is not the body that finds love.
    What leads us there is the body.
    What is not love provokes it.
    What is not love quenches it.
    Love lays hold of everything we know.
    The passions which are called love
    also change everything to a newness
    at first. Passion is clearly the path
    but does not bring us to love.
    It opens the castle of our spirit
    so that we might find the love which is
    a mystery hidden there.
    Love is one of many great fires.
    Passion is a fire made of many woods,
    each of which gives off its special odor
    so we can know the many kinds
    that are not love. Passion is the paper
    and twigs that kindle the flames
    but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
    because it tries to be love.
    Love is eaten away by appetite.
    Love does not last, but it is different
    from the passions that do not last.
    Love lasts by not lasting.
    Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
    for his sins. Love allows us to walk
    in the sweet music of our particular heart.



    A Kiss Poem by Howard The Motivational Poet Simon

    Exiled on the isle of passion and shackled in the prison of craving.
    Bottled up emotion – screaming and shouting and searching for an escape.
    Like a dehydrated deer tracking water -Like a desert hunting an oasis.
    Deluge of flames enrapture my being with the fervor of a thousand fire.
    Tranquillized by cloud of restraint yet burning with the inferno of love.
    Raining from the sky of my being- cascading from my connubial essence.
    Sunshine from the hub of my heart, moistens my lips in the dew of desire.
    Pregnant with the passion of the sun and birthing the beauty of a rose.
    Visuality captures my appetite like predator pouncing on prey.
    Tenderly touching – meticulously massage like a cool breeze in summer.
    Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, lips of my lips, tongue of my tongue.
    Giving and receiving, urging and merging, tightening and heightening.
    Sugar cane and honey splashed together-overflowing into a river of release.
    Floating on ecstasy, as time stands still to salute the creation of art.