Welcome to Poetry.com

Poetry.com is a huge collection of poems from famous and amateur poets from around the world — collaboratively published by a community of authors and contributing editors.

Navigate through our poetry database by subjects, alphabetically or simply search by keywords. You can submit a new poem, discuss and rate existing work, listen to poems using voice pronunciation and even translate pieces to many common and not-so-common languages.


Belinda was an artist
Who painted things from life.
She'd be there at her easel,
With brush or palette knife.
She always looked so calm,
With not a hint of strife.

I'd see her in the cornfield
Or on the village green.
She always looked so lovely,
Quite poised and so serene.
She'd shyly say hello and smile,
As I walked by her scene.

And then one day I saw her
Sitting by a stream,
Her sketchbook on her lap —
'Twas like a waking dream.
I marvelled at her beauty;
A vision, it would seem!

I slowly walked towards her,
Quite curious to see
Whatever she was sketching,
Beneath a shady tree.
She tried in vain to hide it —
Her portrait sketch of me!

Belinda, flustered, fled the scene,
While speechless, I looked on.
She left behind her sketchbook,
Which I then seized upon.
I leafed through all the pages
To see what else she'd drawn.

Her sketches gave me quite a start,
For there on every page,
I saw my own true likeness!
It did not take a sage
To work out that she loved me,
But could not quite engage.

I tried to find Belinda,
But learned she'd moved away.
I wish that I had told her
I'd loved her from the day
That we'd first said hello.
Now nothing's left to say!


Copyright © Robert Haigh 2017
Rate this poem:(5.00 / 1 vote)
Font size:
Collection  Edit     

Submitted by Robert_Haigh on June 12, 2020

1:12 min read

Robert Haigh

Robert Haigh is an amateur English poet, Musician and photographer. more…

All Robert Haigh poems | Robert Haigh Books

FAVORITE (3 fans)

Discuss this Robert Haigh poem with the community:



    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)


    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


    "Belinda" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 4 Mar. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/53664/belinda>.

    We need you!

    Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!


    Are you a poetry master?

    "Now I become myself. It's taken time, many years and places."
    • A. Rita Dove
    • B. W.H. Auden
    • C. Robert Frost
    • D. May Sarton

    Our favorite collection of

    Famous Poets


    Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.