All Poems

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Address to Leopold VII.

© Walther von der Vogelweide

To me is barr'd the door of joy and ease;

There stand I as an orphan, lone, forlorn,

Harvest Time

© John Jay Chapman

BEHOLD, the harvest is at hand;

And thick on the encircling hills

Ave Atque Vale

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

In Memory of Charles Baudelaire
Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs;
Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs,
Et quand Octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres,

Winter: A Dirge

© Robert Burns

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Memory

© Walter Savage Landor

THE MOTHER of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory: she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing

Love

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

We cannot live, except thus mutually

We alternate, aware or unaware,

A Woman Without A Country

© Eavan Boland

As dawn breaks he enters

A room with the odor of acid.

Digging 2

© Edward Thomas

To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Vines, leaves, roots of darkness, growing,
now you are uncurled and cover our eyes
with the edge of winter sky
leaning over us in icy stars.
Vines, leaves, roots of darkness, growing,
come with your seasons, your fullness, your end.

New England June

© Bliss William Carman

THESE things I remember
Of New England June,
Like a vivid day-dream
In the azure noon,

And Thus In Nineveh

© Ezra Pound

Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb
Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night
Slays day with her dark sword.

Sonnet CXLVI: Poor Soul, the Centre of my Sinful Earth

© William Shakespeare

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

[......] these rebel powers that thee array,

O Southland!

© James Weldon Johnson

O Southland! O Southland!

Have you not heard the call,

Chiapas

© Gary Soto

There is the one who turns
A spoon over like a letter,
Reading the teeth-marks
Older than his own;

Scorn Not The Sonnet

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;