All Poems
/ page 1622 of 3210 /
The Clod and the Pebble
© William Blake
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
The Supper
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Blind Roger
Set the glass in my hand. I'm blind and old,
But still I shun to be left in the cold.
These Old Songs
© Edwin Brock
grow in the mind,
their rhymes chiming endlessly
with the sound of feet walking
or rain falling or being taken up
by garden birds, one line at a time.
Enough is as Good as a Feast
© Harry Graham
Who would not willingly forsake
Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
Or juicy fat Asparagus,
And journey over countless seas
For New Potatoes and Green Peas?
Business
© Edgar Albert Guest
BUSINESS is business," he said to me,
As he gave me short weight in my pound of tea.
Pity the Beautiful
© Dana Gioia
Pity the beautiful,
the dolls, and the dishes,
the babes with big daddies
granting their wishes.
from The Bridge: Quaker Hill
© Hart Crane
Above them old Mizzentop, palatial white
Hostelry—floor by floor to cinquefoil dormer
Portholes the ceilings stack their stoic height.
Long tiers of windows staring out toward former
Faces—loose panes crown the hill and gleam
At sunset with a silent, cobwebbed patience . . .
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XIX
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I fled the booth with feelings as of Cain,
Yet laughing at my own bewilderment.
My cheeks had blushed till it was physical pain,
And my eyes smarted. Through my head there went
Psyche in Somerville
© Denise Levertov
I am angry with X, with Y, with Z,
for not being you.
Enthusiasms jump at me,
wagging and barking. Go away.
Go home.
Hartley Field
© Connie Wanek
And you, whom I have heard breathe all night,
sigh through the water of sleep
with vestigial gills . . .
A Promise. "By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow"
© Frances Anne Kemble
By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequestered dell unto the sea,
Amoretti XXIII: Penelope for her Ulisses sake
© Edmund Spenser
Penelope for her Ulisses sake,
Devizd a Web her wooers to deceave:
Through A Porthole
© Leon Gellert
If you could lie upon this berth, this berth
whereon I lie,
If you could see a tiny peak uplift its
tingled tusk,
Passing
© Toi Derricotte
A professor invites me to his “Black Lit” class; they’re
reading Larson’s Passing. One of the black
