I have been making my way through some of the most prolific writers of the 19th and 20th century. Browning, EE Cummings, DH Lawrence, among numerous others. I thought I would share a few that I liked a lot.
This two are by Philip Bourke Marston
So close we are, and yet so far apart,—
So close, I feel thy breath upon my cheek;
So far, that all this love of mine is weak
To touch in any way thy distant heart:
So close, that, when I hear thy voice, I start
To see my whole life standing bare and bleak;
So far, that, though for years and years I seek,
I shall not find thee other than thou art!
So, while I live, I walk upon the verge
Of an impassable and changeless sea
Which more than death divides me, love, from thee;
The mournful beating of its heavy surge
Is all the music now that I shall hear:
O love, thou art too far, and yet too near!
Marston, P. B.
Their lips upon each other's lips are laid;
Strong moans of joy, wild laughter, and short cries
Seem uttered in the passion of their eyes.
He sees her body fair, and fallen head,
And she the face whereon her soul is fed;
And by the way her white breasts sink and rise,
He knows she must be shaken by sweet sighs;
Though all delight of sound for them be dead.
They dance a strange, weird measure, who know not
The tune to which their dancing feet are led;
Their breath in kissing is made doubly hot
With flame of pent-up speech; strange light is shed
About their spirits, as they mix and meet
In passion-lighted silence, 'tranced and sweet.
Marston, P. B.