All Poems
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The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
© Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room
© André Breton
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born
© Charles Lamb
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work.
Up-Hill
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
Sonnet CXXI: 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
© William Shakespeare
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
When not to be receives reproach of being,
A Modest Love
© Sir Edward Dyer
The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little sparks their heat;
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small,
And bees have stings, although they be not great;
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.
A Magic Mountain
© Czeslaw Milosz
I don’t remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years
ago or three.
The same with Chen. Whether last year or the one before.
Soon after our arrival, Budberg, gently pensive,
Said that in the beginning it is hard to get accustomed,
For here there is no spring or summer, no winter or fall.
A Friend Killed in the War
© Anthony Evan Hecht
In the clean brightness of magnesium
Flares, there were seven angels by a tree.
Their hair flashed diamonds, and they made him doubt
They were not really from Elysium.
And his flesh opened like a peony,
Red at the heart, white petals furling out.
Flowers by the Sea
© William Carlos Williams
When over the flowery, sharp pasture’s
edge, unseen, the salt ocean
Destitute Peru
© James Schuyler
For John Ashbery
We pullmaned to Peoria. Was
Gladys glad, Skippy missed
Sookie so. So Peru-ward, home.
“I’ll sew buttons on dresses yet.”
Tropics
© Ellen Bryant Voigt
In the still morning when you move
toward me in sleep for love,
I dream of
Fragment 1: Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
His Suicide
© May Swenson
He looked down at his withering body and saw a hair
near his navel, swaying.
How Things Work
© Gary Soto
Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars
To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book,
Late, Late, so Late
© Alfred Tennyson
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687
© John Dryden
Stanza 4
The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
Montale’s Grave
© Jonathan Galassi
Now that the ticket to eternity
has your name on it, we are here to pay
the awkward tribute post-modernity
allows to those who think they think your way
