All Poems

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Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day

© Delmore Schwartz

Calmly we walk through this April’s day,

Metropolitan poetry here and there,

The House of Time

© Stephen Edgar

And fleetingly it seemed to him

That in between one eye blink and the next

Sonnet III: Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest

© William Shakespeare

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,

Now is the time that face should form another,

The Day of Wrath / Dies Iræ

© Ambrose Bierce

Day of Satan's painful duty!
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty;
So says Virtue, so says Beauty.

Ive just received a letter from a chum in Maoriland,
Hes working down in Auckland where he days hes doing grand,
The climates cooler there, but hearts are warmer, says my chum,
He sends the passage money, and he says Id better come.
(Id like to see his face again, Id like to grip his hand),
He says hes sure that Ill get on first-rate in Maoriland.

Plaisir

© Stephen Dunn

Diarrhea: what nobody likes,

though a word the French love to pronounce.

A Poem for the Cruel Majority

© Jerome Rothenberg

Nothing can make the dark turn into light
for the cruel majority.
Nothing can make them feel hunger or terror.

Polly's Tree

© Sylvia Plath

A dream tree, Polly's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig

The Sparrow Club

© William Barnes

Last night the merry farmers' sons,

Vrom biggest down to leäst, min,

Madrigal in Time of War

© Daniel Nester

Beside the rivers of the midnight town
Where four-foot couples love and paupers drown,
Shots of quick hell we took, our final kiss,
The great and swinging bridge a bower for this.

The Shore

© David St. John

So the tide forgets, as morning

Grows too far delivered, as the bowls

An Incident Of The Fire At Hamburg

© James Russell Lowell

The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies,
Like some huge piece of Nature's make, the growth of centuries;
You could not deem its crowding spires a work of human art,
They seemed to struggle lightward from a sturdy living heart.

The Shrubbery

Oh happy shades—to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!

Bereavement.

The little feet have left the house,
The little voice is still:
Without, the wan wind-weary boughs;
Within, the will
To go and hear the wee feet tread
Within the garden of the dead.