Poetry is not just something that we grudgingly learn in school, pass the tests and move on. Poetry endures because it captures the human experience in a way that is both personal and universal. We may not like poetry, but we surely listen to some form of music. Music is poetry, dressed up in musical notes or the rhythm of words.

What makes a good poem? According to experts from literary experts, vivid imagery is the strongest predictor of a poem’s appeal. Additionally, the emotional tone of a poem – light or dark – also plays an important role in a poem’s aesthetic appeal. Basically, a memorable poem is one that readers could clearly visualize as well as feel an emotional connection. If we think about it, this is what poetry is about – using wordplay to conjure images and feelings that touch the depth of our emotions about life, about love, about loss. – in short, the human condition.

Below are 5 poems ranked by literary experts as the best Romantic poems of all time. The term “romantism” refers to the artistic movement – generally dated to between the late 18th and mid-19th centuries – that turned toward nature and the interior world of feeling, in opposition to the mannered formalism and disciplined scientific inquiry of the Enlightenment era. In other words, it was a movement that celebrates those things that excite the artist’s soul, passions, and sensibilities. Do note that the list includes a work by William Shakespeare who is clearly an outlier as far as the dating of the Romantic period is concerned. Nonetheless, the work I chose (Sonnet 18) is not only a love poem, but one that is decidedly “romantic” in the way that term is understood. Also note that that the list only includes poems written in the English language. It therefore, leave out a wealth of masterful poems written in other languages which you are encouraged to explore.

THE RAVEN by Edgar Allen Poe (1845)

This haunting and melancholic poem explores grief, loss and the supernatural through the narrator’s interactions with a mysterious raven. It tells of a talking raven’s mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man’s slow fall into madness. The enchanting rhyme and musicality of the poem are its standout quality.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

***

SONNET 18 by William Shakespeare (1609)

Sonnet 18 is one of the greatest love poems ever written.  The poem praises the beauty of a beloved person and immortalizes them through the power of words. What makes Sonnet 18 timeless is the narrator’s portrayal of his beloved as one whose beauty does not fade away because she is eternally preserved in his heart and mind like the words of a poem that once written, never dies.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

***

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost (1916)

Which path should you choose in life? This famous poem immortalizes the angst of choosing a path only to rue over the other roads not taken. The inspiration of the poem was believed to be Robert Frost’s close friend, the British poet, Edward Thomas. Thomas was “a person who, whichever road he went, would be sorry he didn’t go the other.” The Road Not Taken was initially meant to be a gentle mocking of indecision. It has since been interpreted by readers as a reminder of the need for careful thinking and not following the crowd. A great part of the poem’s appeal is Frost’s clever use of melancholic but beautiful language that makes reading this poem aloud a pleasure.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

A PSALM OF LIFE by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1838)
This inspirational poem encourages readers to live their lives with purpose and to leave a positive impact on the world, like an invocation to mankind to live on the path of righteousness as it is right way to live.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

***

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? By Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1850)

This renowned sonnet expresses the depth and breadth of the speaker’s love for their beloved. It’s first line sets the tone with the immortal words” “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” And the rest of the poem does just that, ending with the epic sentence, “I shall but love thee better after death.” Seldom has one sentence in a poem stop readers in their tracks as this!

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
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 candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the 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; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

***

Brief Biographies of the Poets

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1949)

Edgar Allan Poe’s stature as a major figure in world literature is primarily based on his ingenious and profound short stories, poems, and critical theories, which established a highly influential rationale for the short form in both poetry and fiction. He is the first well-known American writer to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career that contributed to his early death.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

William Shakespeare was a prolific writer during the Elizabethan and Jacobean ages of British theatre (sometimes called the English Renaissance or the Early Modern Period). His plays are perhaps his most enduring legacy, but they are not all he wrote. Shakespeare also poems, many of which remain popular to this day.

Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)

Robert Frost was an American poet whose poetry is known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech, using his “rural poems” to examine complex social and philosophical themes. Frequently honored during his lifetime, Frost is the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the most widely known and best-loved American poets of the 19th century. He achieved a level of national and international prominence previously unequaled in the literary history of the United States and is one of the few American writers honored in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey. Longfellow’s achievements in fictional and nonfictional prose, in a striking variety of poetic forms and modes, and in translation from many European languages resulted in a remarkably productive and influential literary career. He was a celebrity in his own time, though his shine as a poet has yielded to changing literary tastes and to reactions against the genteel tradition of authorship he represented.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was an English poet of the Victorian era, popular in both Britain and the United States during her lifetime. Among all female poets of the English-speaking world in the 19th century, Browning was held in high critical esteem and was admired for the independence and courage of her views than Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Indeed, during the years of her marriage to Robert Browning, her literary reputation far surpassed that of her poet-husband.