All Poems
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Unholy Sonnet 13
© Mark Jarman
Drunk on the Umbrian hills at dusk and drunk
On one pink cloud that stood beside the moon,
Fears In Solitude. Written In April, 1798, During The Alarm Of An Invasion
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
Improvisations: Light And Snow: 08
© Conrad Aiken
Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
An Essay on Man: Epistle I
© Alexander Pope
To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
Mother Shake The Cherry-Tree
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Mother shake the cherry-tree,
Susan catch a cherry;
The Fiddler
© Robert Fuller Murray
There's a fiddler in the street,
And the children all are dancing:
Two dozen lightsome feet
Springing and prancing.
The GraceMyselfmight not obtain
© Emily Dickinson
The GraceMyselfmight not obtain
Confer upon My flower
Refracted but a Countenance
For Iinhabit Her
Eagle Affirmation
© John Kinsella
You’ve got to understand that sighting the pair
of eagles over the block, right over our house,
Over The Hills
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Over the hills and the valleys of dreaming
Slowly I take my way.
Life is the night with its dream-visions teeming,
Death is the waking at day.
Intellectuals
© Robinson Jeffers
Is it so hard for men to stand by themselves,
They must hang on Marx or Christ, or mere Progress?
Clearly it is hard. But these ought to be leaders . . .
Sheep leading sheep, "The fold, the fold.
Night comes, and the wolves of doubt." Clearly it is hard.
London Snow
© John Hall Wheelock
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)
© Emily Dickinson
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
The Habitants Summer
© William Henry Drummond
O, who can blame de winter, never min'
de hard he 's blowin'
On My First Daughter
© Benjamin Jonson
Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
