A collection of great love poetry, chosen in no particular order or reason except that it spoke to me. I hope it speaks to you too. *Disclaimer: these works are not my own.*
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is— I hold it towards you.
- Keats
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