A Woman's Love

I am not blind I understand;
I see him loyal, good, and wise,
I feel decision in his hand,
I read his honour in his eyes.
Manliest among men is he
With every gift and grace to clothe him;
He never loved a girl but me —
And I I loathe him! loathe him!

The other! Ah! I value him
Precisely at his proper rate,
A creature of caprice and whim,
Unstable, weak, importunate.
His thoughts are set on paltry gain —
You only tell me what I see —
I know him selfish, cold and vain;
But, oh! he's all the world to me!

Arthur Conan Doyle

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a British writer and physician, famous for creating the detective Sherlock Holmes. He was born on May 22, 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland, and died on July 7, 1930. Although best known for his Holmes series, Doyle was a versatile author who wrote in various genres, including science fiction, historical novels, and plays. Doyle was also involved in politics and was an advocate for spiritualism. His works greatly influenced different literary genres, making him one of the most significant literary figures of his time.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Cremona

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

The Storming Party

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

The Inner Room

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

Sexagenarius Loquitur

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Blind Archer

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
And oh! but he wounded her sore.
'Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?'
No word would he say,
But he flew on his way,
For the little boy's busy, and how could he stay?

Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport
At the soberest club in Pall Mall;
He winged an old veteran drinking his port,
And down that old veteran fell.
'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at?
This cannot be right!
It's ludicrous quite!'
But it's no use to argue, for Love's out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart
Was planning a celibate vow;
But the boy's random arrow h...

Arthur Conan Doyle

Man's Limitation

Man says that He is jealous,
Man says that He is wise,
Man says that He is watching
From His throne beyond the skies.

But perchance the arch above us
Is one great mirror's span,
And the Figure seen so dimly
Is a vast reflected man.

If it is love that gave us
A thousand blossoms bright,
Why should that love not save us
From poisoned aconite?

If this man blesses sunshine
Which sets his fields aglow,
Shall that man curse the tempest
That lays his harvest low?

If you may sing His praises
For health He gave to you,
What of this spine-curved cripple,
Shall he sing praises too?

If you may justly thank Him
For strength in mind and limb,
Then what of yonder weakling —
Must he give thanks to Him?

Arthur Conan Doyle

Love.

Love - love - love - love, -
A tiny hand in a tiny glove;
A witching smile that means, - well, - well,
Whether little or much its hard to tell.
A tiny foot and a springy tread,
Short curls running riot all over her head;
A waist that invites a fond embrace,
Yet by modesty girt seems a holy place;
Not a place where an arm should be idly thrown,
But should gently rest, as would rest my own.
An angel whose wings are but hid from view,
Whose charms are many and faults so few,
As near perfection as mortal can be,
Is the one that I love and that loves but me.
They tell me that love is blind, - .oh, no!
They can never convince a lover so;
Love cannot be blind for it sees much more,
Then others have ever discovered before.
Oh, the restless night with its ple...

John Hartley

The Wanderer

With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.

'Twas in the shadowy gloaming
Of a cold and wet March day,
That a wanderer came roaming
From countries far away.

Scant raiment had he round him,
Nor purse, nor worldly gear,
Hungry and faint we found him,
And bade him welcome here.

His weary frame bent double,
His eyes were old and dim,
His face was writhed with trouble
Which none might share with him.

His speech was strange and broken,
And none could understand,
Such words as might be spoken
In some far distant land.

We guessed not whence he hailed from,
Nor knew what far-off quay
His roving bark had sailed from
Before he came to me.

But there he was, so slender,
So helpless and so pale,

Arthur Conan Doyle

To Woman.

Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee, who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, plac'd in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much curst by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record wil...

George Gordon Byron

De Amore

Shall one be sorrowful because of love,
Which hath no earthly crown,
Which lives and dies, unknown?
Because no words of his shall ever move
Her maiden heart to own
Him lord and destined master of her own:
Is Love so weak a thing as this,
Who can not lie awake,
Solely for his own sake,
For lack of the dear hands to hold, the lips to kiss,
A mere heart-ache?

Nay, though love's victories be great and sweet,
Nor vain and foolish toys,
His crowned, earthly joys,
Is there no comfort then in love's defeat?
Because he shall defer,
For some short span of years all part in her,
Submitting to forego
The certain peace which happier lovers know;
Because he shall be utterly disowned,
Nor length of service bring
Her least awakening:
Foiled...

Ernest Christopher Dowson