Kisses

Here's to the red of the holly berry,
    And to its leaf so green;
And here's to the lips that are just as red,
    And the fellow who's not so green.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CLIII. Songs.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXVI. Lullabies.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. LXXIV. Tales.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. III. Historical

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Kisses

Here's to a kiss:
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss add a score,
Then to that twenty add a hundred more;
A thousand to that hundred, and so kiss on,
To make that thousand quite a million,
Treble that million, and when that is done
Let's kiss afresh as though we'd just begun.

Unknown

Kisses

There was an old maiden from Fife,
Who had never been kissed in her life;
    Along came a cat;
    And she said, "I'll kiss that!"
But the cat answered, "Not on your life!"

Unknown

Mare Rubrum

1858

Flash out a stream of blood-red wine,
For I would drink to other days,
And brighter shall their memory shine,
Seen flaming through its crimson blaze!
The roses die, the summers fade,
But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By nature's magic power is laid
To sleep beneath this blood-red stream!

It filled the purple grapes that lay,
And drank the splendors of the sun,
Where the long summer's cloudless day
Is mirrored in the broad Garonne;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes
That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, -
The maidens dancing on the grapes, -
Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.

Beneath these waves of crimson lie,
In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those flitting shapes that never die, -
The swift-winged visions o...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Red, Red Rose.

Air - "Hughie Graham."



I.

    O were my love yon lilac fair,
        Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
    And I, a bird to shelter there,
        When wearied on my little wing!
    How I wad mourn, when it was torn
        By autumn wild, and winter rude!
    But I wad sing on wanton wing,
        When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

II.

    O gin my love were yon red rose,
        That grows upon the castle wa';
    And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
        Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
    Oh, there beyond expression blest,
        I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
    Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
        Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns

For A Picture By Rose Cecil O'Neil

Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,
    Kisses and words - the sweet small prophecies
That run before the Lord of Love: the fain
    Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,
All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door
    Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this -
    The end of all small speech of word or kiss,
And whose strange name is Love - and one name more.

One is this twain past power of speech to tell,
    Each lost in each, and each for ever found;
Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;
    Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned
    In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,
And it is well with them - yea! it is well.

Richard Le Gallienne

A Ballad Of Kisses.

I.

    There are three kisses that I call to mind,
    And I will sing their secrets as I go.
    The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,
    Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know;
    As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.


II.

    The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,
    And evermore my soul will loathe the same.
    The toys and joys of fate I may forget,
    But not the touch of that divided shame:
    It clove my lips; it burnt me like a flame.


III.

    The third, the final kiss, is one I use
    Morning and noon and night; and not amiss.
    Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse!
    And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss,
    Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss.

Eric Mackay