Have you ever found yourself daydreaming about someone who makes your heart race?
The thrill of infatuation is a feeling like no other that fills you with a sweet anticipation of a simple glance.
Here are 10 delightful poems about crushes that will awaken those cherished memories and remind you of the magic that comes with having a crush.
Let’s experience that euphoric feeling all over again!
My favorite poem about crushes
#1 “This Is The Face of Her” by Madison Cawein
This is the face of her
I’ve dreamed of long
That in my heart I bear:
This is the face of her
Pictured in song.
Look on the lily lids,
The eyes of dawn,—
Deep as a Nereid’s,
Swimming with dewy lids
In waters wan.
Look on the brows of snow,
The locks of night:
Only the gods can show
Such brows of placid snow,
Such locks of light.
The cheeks, like rosy moons;
The lips of fire:
Love sighs no sweeter tunes
Under romantic moons
Than these suspire.
Loved lips and eyes and hair!
Look, this is she!
She, who sits smiling there,
Throned in my heart’s despair,
Never for me!
I picked “This Is the Face of Her” because it perfectly captures the intense feelings and vivid fantasies of having a crush.
The poet’s descriptions makes me feel the longing and passion the poet feels towards his beloved and this makes it even more relatable.
I also like the part where it expressed the bittersweet feeling of a having a crush as well as the rush it can give you.
9 more poems about crushes
#2 “At the Church-Gate” by William Makepeace Thackeray
Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city’s rout,
And noise and humming;
They ’ve hushed the minster bell;
The organ ’gins to swell;
She ’s coming, coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes,—she ’s here, she ’s past!
May Heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven’s gate,
Angels within it.
#3 “To the Princess Lucretia” by Torquato Tasso
Thy unripe youth seemed like the purple rose
That to the warm ray opens not its breast,
But, hiding still within its mossy vest,
Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose;
Or like Aurora, when the heaven first glows,—
For likeness from above will suit thee best,—
When she with gold kindles each mountain crest,
And o’er the plain her pearly mantle throws.
No loss from time thy riper age receives,
Nor can young beauty decked with art’s display
Rival the native graces of thy form:
Thus lovelier is the flower whose full-blown leaves
Perfume the air, and more than orient ray
The sun’s meridian glories blaze and warm.
#4 “To A Young Lady” by Thomas Frederick Young
Short is the time, my friend, since I
First heard thy voice, first saw thy face,
And yet, the days in gliding by,
Have left within my mind a trace–
A friendly trace of thee and thine,
Which I am sure will long remain
Within my heart, to cheer and shine
With other joys, to lessen pain.
It is my hope, also, that thou
May, in thy heart, and on thy tongue,
Have thoughts and words for him, who now
Is yours so friendly, T. F. Young.
#5 “The Beautiful Stranger” by John Clare
I cannot know what country owns thee now,
With France’s forest lilies on thy brow.
When England knew thee thou wert passing fair;
I never knew a foreign face so rare.
The world of waters rolls and rushes bye,
Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie.
But surely France must be a pleasant place
That greets the stranger with so fair a face;
The English maiden blushes down the dance,
But few can equal the fair maid of France.
I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine,
And the last song I ever wrote is thine.
Thy country’s honour on thy face attends;
Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.
#6 “I Look In Her Face” by Thomas Hardy
I look in her face and say,
“Sing as you used to sing
About Love’s blossoming”;
But she hints not Yea or Nay.
“Sing, then, that Love’s a pain,
If, Dear, you think it so,
Whether it be or no;”
But dumb her lips remain.
I go to a far-off room,
A faint song ghosts my ear;
WHICH song I cannot hear,
But it seems to come from a tomb.
#7 “Sweet Eyes Of Blue” by Freeman Edwin Miller
Sweet eyes of blue! The stars by night,
That swoon the world with laughing light,
And touch the hills with tender glow
While all the vales are kissed below,
Beside you would no more be bright.
My worlds ye are, and while I throw
My heart to catch the beams that flow
From your fair shrine, my woes take flight,
Sweet eyes of blue!
Glad orbs of beauty! In your sight
My soul mounts up with secret might,
Till Eden’s lovely bowers I know;
And as through Heaven’s gates I go,
The pleasures all my sorrow smite,
Sweet eyes of blue!
#8 “Her Eyes” by Madison Cawein
In her dark eyes dreams poetize;
The soul sits lost in love:
There is no thing in all the skies,
To gladden all the world I prize,
Like the deep love in her dark eyes,
Or one sweet dream thereof.
In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,
Her soul’s soft moods I see:
Of hope and faith, that make life wise;
And charity, whose food is sighs—
Not truer than her own true eyes
Is truth’s divinity.
In her dark eyes the knowledge lies
Of an immortal sod,
Her soul once trod in angel guise,
Nor can forget its heavenly ties,
Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyes
Once gazed the eyes of God.
#9 “If I Were Her Lover” by Madison Cawein
I
If I were her lover,
I’d wade through the clover
Over the fields before
The gate that leads to her door;
Over the meadows,
To wait, ’mid the shadows,
The shadows that circle her door,
For the heart of my heart and more.
And there in the clover
Close by her,
Over and over
I’d sigh her:
“Your eyes are as brown
As the Night’s, looking down
On waters that sleep
With the moon in their deep” …
If I were her lover to sigh her.
II
If I were her lover,
I’d wade through the clover
Over the fields before
The lane that leads to her door;
I’d wait, ’mid the thickets,
Or there by the pickets,
White pickets that fence in her door,
For the life of my life and more.
I’d lean in the clover—
The crisper
For the dews that are over—
And whisper:
“Your lips are as rare
As the dewberries there,
As ripe and as red,
On the honey-dew fed” …
If I were her lover to whisper.
III
If I were her lover,
I’d wade through the clover
Over the fields before
The pathway that leads to her door;
And watch, in the twinkle
Of stars that sprinkle
The paradise over her door,
For the soul of my soul and more.
And there in the clover
I’d reach her;
And over and over
I’d teach her—
A love without sighs,
Of laughterful eyes,
That reckoned each second
The pause of a kiss,
A kiss and … that is
If I were her lover to teach her.
#10 “She Is Not Fair To Outward View” by Hartley Coleridge
She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me:
O, then I saw her eye was bright,—
A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold;
To mine they ne’er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are!