All Poems
/ page 1693 of 3210 /
The Night
© Henry Vaughan
Through that pure virgin shrine,
That sacred veil drawn oer Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glowworms shine,
And face the moon,
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.
The Lover's Farewell
© George Moses Horton
And wilt thou, love, my soul display,
And all my secret thoughts betray?
I strove but could not hold thee fast,
My heart flies off with thee at last.
A Sonnet Upon a Stolen Kiss
© George Wither
Now gentle sleep hath clos'd up those eyes
Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,
An Explanation
© James Weldon Johnson
Look heah! 'Splain to me de reason
Why you said to Squire Lee,
Der wuz twelve ole chicken thieves
In dis heah town, includin' me.
Laus Veneris
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Asleep or waking is it? for her neck,
Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck
Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out;
Soft, and stung softly — fairer for a fleck.
VII Mon. September [1742] hath xxx days.
© Stephen C. Foster
The Reverse
Studious of Ease, and fond of humble Things,
The Careless Lad
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
The careless lad went through the wood,
Leaped the retarding gate,
On Spies
© Benjamin Jonson
Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuff,
Who, when you’ve burnt yourselves down to the snuff,
Stink and are thrown away. End fair enough.
My Bride That Is To Be
© James Whitcomb Riley
O soul of mine, look out and see
My bride, my bride that is to be!
Tapestry
© Charles Simic
It hangs from heaven to earth.
There are trees in it, cities, rivers,
small pigs and moons. In one corner
the snow falling over a charging cavalry,
in another women are planting rice.
At The Tide's Will
© Roderic Quinn
WHEN the tide came surging in
To the beach it bore
Drift-wood and brown weeds
These and nothing more!
Town Eclogues: Thursday; the Bassette-Table
© Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
CARDELIA. THE bassette-table spread, the tallier come,
Why stays SMILINDA in the dressing-room ?
Rise, pensive nymph ! the tallier stays for you.
Dead Cleopatra
© Conrad Aiken
Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket,
Wrapped and spiced by the cunningest of hands.
Around her neck they have put a golden necklace
Her tatbebs, it is said, are worn with sands.
Proud Maisie
© Sir Walter Scott
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
Where does the Winter go?
© Ethel Turner
There goes the Winter, sulkily slinking
Somewhere behind the trees on the hill.
The Unknown Dead
© Henry Timrod
The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
Hymn to the Comb-Over by Wesley McNair: American Life in Poetry #122 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate
© Ted Kooser
The chances are very good that you are within a thousand yards of a man with a comb-over, and he may even be somewhere in your house. Here's Maine poet, Wesley McNair, with his commentary on these valorous attempts to disguise hair loss.
