All Poems

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A Toast for Men Yun-Ch’ing

© Tu Fu

Illimitable happiness,

But grief for our white heads.

"'Tis because, though in dusky bower"

'Tis because, though in dusky bower,
With love delighted still thou art;
Nor hath the deepening twilight power
To lay a curfew on thy heart.
Thou lovest; and, loving, dost prolong
The sense of sunlight with thy song.

Speakin' O' Christmas

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

BREEZES blowin' middlin' brisk,

Snow-flakes thro' the air a-whisk,

Poem for My Twentieth Birthday

© Kenneth Koch

Passing the American graveyard, for my birthday
the crosses stuttering, white on tropical green,
the years quick focus of faces I do not remember . . .

The Canon Of Aughrim

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

You ask me of English honour, whether your Nation is just?
Justice for us is a word divine, a name we revere,
Alas, no more than a name, a thing laid by in the dust.
The world shall know it again, but not in this month or year.

Ararat

© Mark Doty

Wrapped in gold foil, in the search

and shouting of Easter Sunday,

Thursday

© William Carlos Williams

I have had my dream-like others-

and it has come to nothing, so that

Song: Kind Adieu

© Margaret Widdemer

GOOD-BY, my dear, good-by
You woke my heart to break it,
So if another take it
Why need you turn or sigh?

Unmediated experience

© Richard Jones

She does this thing. Our seventeen-

year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.

The Prime of Life

© Henry Lawson

OH, the strength of the toil of those twenty years, with father, and master, and men!
And the clearer brain of the business man, who has held his own for ten:
Oh, the glorious freedom from business fears, and the rest from domestic strife!
The past is dead, and the future assured, and Im in the prime of life!

Poor Old Lady

© Pierre Reverdy

Poor old lady, she swallowed a fly.
I don't know why she swallowed a fly.
Poor old lady, I think she'll die.

The Chase

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

THE wind told the little leaves to hurry,

And chased them down the way,

The Sheep in the Ruins

© Archibald MacLeish

Works of soul—
Pilgrimages through the desert to the sacred boulder:
Through the mid night to the stroke of one!
Works of grace! Works of wonder!
All this have we done and more—
And seen—what have we not seen?—

The Strange Lady

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by,
As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool dear sky;
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground.

Alton Locke's Song

Weep, weep, weep and weep,
For pauper, dolt, and slave!
Hark! from wasted moor and fen,
Feverous alley, stifling den,
Swells the wail of Saxon men-
Work! or the grave!

Here on Earth

Here on Earth - not in high clouds-
On this mother earth that is close:
To sorrow in her sadness, exult in her meager joy
That knows, so well, how to console.

Eidolon

Down in fame’s flood, down an alley, down
wind of now, elegant in self-denial,
an Iron Range wraith junking cue cards, an ideal,
an idol before which the Zeitgeist kneeled.