All Poems

/ page 1698 of 3210 /

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Inside

© Heather McHugh

In the field is a house
of wood. A window of the house
contains the field.

Red Dog

© Rudyard Kipling

For our white and our excellent nights-for the nights of swift

running,

from “Poems for Blok”

© Marina Tsvetaeva

Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips’ quick opening.
Your name—four letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.

Riding Home

© Katharine Tynan

Who are these that go to the high peaks and the snow?
Side by side do they ride, their steady eyes aglow.
Gallant gentlemen, they go spurring o'er the plain;
Home from the war again.

Art

© Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

In placid hours well-pleased we dream

Of many a brave unbodied scheme.

Samuel Brown

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

He came with us to thy great gates, oh Thou

Unopened Age. Our noise was like the wind

[anyone lived in a pretty how town]

© Edward Estlin Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

All For The Cause

© William Morris

Hear a word, a word in season,
for the day is drawing nigh,
When the Cause shall call upon us,
some to live, and some to die!

Autobiography

© Louis MacNeice

In my childhood trees were green

And there was plenty to be seen.

Kindness

© Yusef Komunyakaa

For Carol Rigolot

I acknowledge my status as a stranger:

The future I read in toil's guerdon,
You will read in your children's eyes:
The past--the same past with either--
Is to you a delightsome scene,
But I cannot trace it clearly
For the graves that rise between.

At Melville’s Tomb

© Hart Crane

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.

What We Can Be

© Edgar Albert Guest

We cannot all be men of fame,

We cannot all be men of wealth,

Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter

© Pindar

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

To the Poor

Child of distress, who meet’st the bitter scorn

Of fellow-men to happier prospects born,

Tell thee truth, sweet; no

TELL thee truth, sweet; no.
Truth is cross and sad and cold:
Lies are pitiful and kind,
Honey-soft as Love's own tongue:

Trouble with Math in a One-Room Country School

© Jane Kenyon

The others bent their heads and started in.

Confused, I asked my neighbor

Wide Road

© Piet Hein

To make a name for learning
when other roads are barred,
take something very easy
and make it very hard.

Caelica 22: [I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head]

I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head,
I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back my turn again to play?