Report this poem. Carlos Echeverria 08 August Kevin Straw 08 August Gerard Scheuermann 17 October Brett Strotman 13 June Juan Olivarez 08 August Sylvia Frances Chan 13 August Rose Marie Juan-austin 12 August Sylvia Frances Chan 12 August See All Comments. Langston Hughes. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. How Much? How much do you love me, a million bushels?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more. And to-morrow maybe only half a bushel? To-morrow maybe not even a half a bushel. And is this your heart arithmetic? This is the way the wind measures the weather. Carl Sandburg William Shakespeare My Love Sent Me a List O my Love sent me a lusty list, Did not compare me to a summer's day Wrote not the beauty of mine eyes But catalogued in a pretty detailed And comprehensive way the way s In which he was better than me.
About this poem: "No, really, a found poem; however, I also find, that if one reads thirty or so Shakespearean sonnets in a row out loud , something is bound to happen. Olena Kalytiak Davis Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter.
Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Wordview Watchmen. Wordview Chromosomes. Wordview New Cloth. Wordview This Man Comes In. Wordview The Coffin Club. Featured in the archive. Classic Love Collection. Back to top. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints; -- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! Your email address will not be published.
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