All Poems

/ page 1459 of 3210 /

Order by :

I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice

© Anna Akhmatova

I don't expect love's tender flatteries,
In premonition of some dark event,
But come, come and see this paradise
Where together we were blessed and innocent.

All The Time In The World

© Sheldon Allan Silverstein

Lay down
Let's explore this tenderness between us
There ain't no one around at all to see us
And baby would you mind
If maybe you and I
Took a little time to find each other?

Eh Bien! Je Le Voulais

© André Marie de Chénier

Eh bien! je le voulais. J'aurais bien dû me croire!

Tant de fois à ses torts je cédai la victoire!

Lying in me

© Anna Akhmatova

I know the gods changed people into things,
Leaving their consciousness alive and free.
To keep alive the wonder of suffering,
You have been metamorphosed into me.

Anguish

© Arthur Rimbaud

Is it possible that She will have me forgiven for ambitions continually crushed,--

that an affluent end will make up for the ages of indigence,--

Sunbeam

© Anna Akhmatova

I pray to the sunbeam from the window -
It is pale, thin, straight.
Since morning I have been silent,
And my heart - is split.

Thunder

© Anna Akhmatova

There will be thunder then. Remember me.
Say She asked for storms. The entire
world will turn the colour of crimson stone,
and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.

Two Views Of A Cadaver Room

© Sylvia Plath

1
The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume

Callous Cupid

© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

CUPID does not care for sighs

Does not care for lover's weeping!

In Memory of M. B.

© Anna Akhmatova

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.

Why Is This Age Worse...?

© Anna Akhmatova

Why is this age worse than earlier ages?
In a stupor of grief and dread
have we not fingered the foulest wounds
and left them unhealed by our hands?

Mutual Forbearance : Necessary to the Happiness of the Married State

© William Cowper

The lady thus address'd her spouse--

What a mere dungeon is this house!

Lot's Wife

© Anna Akhmatova

And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back

Hymn To Death

Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart

Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem

You Thought I Was That Type

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

The Haunted Woodland

Here in the golden darkness
And green night of the woods,
A flitting form I follow,
A shadow that eludes--
Or is it but the phantom
Of former forest moods?

Under Her Dark Veil

And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke!
That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'
He smiled calmly and grimly
And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why --
made up the tale that love exists on earth.