All Poems
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Mountain Song
© Harriet Monroe
I have not where to lay my head:
Upon my breast no child shall lie;
For me no marriage feast is spread:
I walk alone under the sky.
For C.
© Lola Ridge
After the clash of elevator gates
And the long sinking, she emerges where,
A slight thing in the morning’s crosstown glare,
She looks up toward the window where he waits,
Then in a fleeting taxi joins the rest
Of the huge traffic bound forever west.
Whole Duty Of Children
© Robert Louis Stevenson
A child should always say what's true
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table;
At least as far as he is able.
The Hackney Coachman: Or the Way to Get a Good Fare
© Erica Jong
I am a bold Coachman, and drive a good hack,
With a coat of five capes that quite covers my back;
And my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many miles
From the narrowest alley in all Broad St Giles.
The Rest
© Ezra Pound
Artists broken against her,
A-stray, lost in the villages,
Mistrusted, spoken-against,
Sonnet CVII: Not mine own Fears, nor the Prophetic Soul
© William Shakespeare
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Grandmas Prayer
© Eugene Field
I pray that, risen from the dead,
I may in glory stand
A crown, perhaps, upon my head,
But a needle in my hand.
On The Plains.
© Arthur Henry Adams
ALONE with the silence, the sun and sky,
Full length on the tussocky plain I lie:
An ocean of yellow from east to west
Still rolling and sweeping, far crest on crest;
The Deer and the Snake
© Kenneth Patchen
The deer is humble, lovely as God made her
I watch her eyes and think of wonder owned
The Graduation Dress
© Edgar Albert Guest
I'M not kicking on expenses, now the sewing time commences,
I will buy chiffon and laces till they say they've got enough;
Night
© Charles Heavysege
'Tis solemn darkness; the sublime of shade;
Night, by no stars nor rising moon relieved;
To Mrs. Strangeways Horner, With A Letter From My Son;
© Mary Barber
Methinks, I see your Friendship rise,
And sparkle in your lovely Eyes.
Your Heir! (I hear you now repeat)
I long to know of your Estate.
Say--Is it an Hibernian Bog,
Where Phoebus seldom shines for Fog?
Paracelsus:
© Diane di Prima
Pulp, manna, gentle
Theriasin, ergot
like mold on flame, these red leaves
bursting
from mesquite by the side
of dry creekbed. Extract
Botticelli's Madonna in the Louvre
© Edith Wharton
WHAT strange presentiment, O Mother, lies
On thy waste brow and sadly-folded lips,
Genie
© Arthur Rimbaud
He is affection and the present since he opened the house to foaming winter and the hum of summer, he who purified drink and food, he who is the charm of fleeting places and the superhuman deliciousness of staying still. He is affection and the future, strength and love that we, standing amid rage and troubles, see passing in the storm-rent sky and on banners of ecstasy.
He is love, perfect and reinvented measurement, wonderful and unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine beloved for its fatal qualities. We have all experienced the terror of his yielding and of our own: O enjoyment of our health, surge of our faculties, egoistic affection and passion for him, he who loves us for his infinite life
And we remember him and he travels. . . And if the Adoration goes away, resounds, its promise resounds: “Away with those superstitions, those old bodies, those couples and those ages. It’s this age that has sunk!”
He won’t go away, nor descend from a heaven again, he won’t accomplish the redemption of women’s anger and the gaiety of men and of all that sin: for it is now accomplished, with him being, and being loved.
Our Valley
© Philip Levine
We don't see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August
when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay
The Circus
© Kenneth Koch
Noel Lee was in Paris then but usually out of it
In Germany or Denmark giving a concert
As part of an endless activity
Which was either his career or his happiness or a combination of both
Or neither I remember his dark eyes looking he was nervous
With me perhaps because of our days at Harvard.
