All Poems

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Rubaiyat 36

© Shams al-Din Hafiz

Every flower its beauty bestows,
Your lips the dearest gems dispose.
May your lips nurture our souls
With the wine that every spirit knows.

Spring Snow

© Michael Rosen

A kind of counter-

blossoming, diversionary,

Haschisch

© Arthur Symons

Behind the door, beyond the light,
Who is it waits there in the night?
When he has entered he will stand,
Imposing with his silent hand
Some silent thing upon the night.

The Untamed

© Ronald Stuart Thomas

My garden is the wild
Sea of the grass. Her garden
Shelters between walls.
The tide could break in;
I should be sorry for this.

Sonnets from the Portuguese 44: Beloved, thou has brought me many flowers

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through

Finding A Long Gray Hair

© Jane Kenyon

I scrub the long floorboards

in the kitchen, repeating

The People of the Other Village

© Thomas Lux

hate the people of this village

and would nail our hats

Wandering At Morn

© Walt Whitman

There ponder'd, felt I,
If worms, snakes, loathsome grubs, may to sweet spiritual songs be
turn'd,
If vermin so transposed, so used, so bless'd may be,

Harmonic Du Soir

© Lord Alfred Douglas

Now is the hour when, swinging in the breeze,
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet.
The air is full of scents and melodies,
O languorous waltz ! O swoon of dancing feet!

“Where does such tenderness come from?”

© Marina Tsvetaeva

Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.

The Two Elizabeths

© John Greenleaf Whittier

AMIDST Thuringia's wooded hills she dwelt,
A high-born princess, servant of the poor,
Sweetening with gracious words the food she dealt
To starving throngs at Wartburg's blazoned door.

An Epitaph on S.P.

© Benjamin Jonson

A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

Weep with me, all you that read

On The Death Of Mrs. Throckmorton's Bullfinch

Ye Nymphs, if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
Oh, share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassined by a thief.