All Poems
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My Emmaleen
© George Ade
Lovey, my dovey dove
Ham-bone can't compaih.
Peppehmint and wintergreen
Not so sweet as Emmaleen.
The Blackstone Rangers
© Gwendolyn Brooks
There they are.
Thirty at the corner.
Black, raw, ready.
Sores in the city
that do not want to heal.
A Character
© Samuel Rogers
As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals,
And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals;
Her softer charms, but by their influence known,
Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own.
Stella's Birthday March 13, 1727
© Jonathan Swift
Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.
Belly Dancer
© Diane Wakoski
Can these movements which move themselves
be the substance of my attraction?
Where does this thin green silk come from that covers my body?
Surely any woman wearing such fabrics
would move her body just to feel them touching every part of her.
Learning Geography
© Lesbia Harford
They have a few little hours
To study the world
Its lovely absence of clouds,
Or the thunderbolts hurled
It's the Little Towns I Like
© Thomas Lux
It’s the little towns I like
with their little mills making ratchets
LArt Des Transports De LAme
© André Marie de Chénier
L'art, des transports de l'âme est un faible interprète:
L'art ne fait que des vers; le coeur seul est poète.
Song: If you refuse me once, and think again
© Sir John Suckling
If you refuse me once, and think again,
I will complain.
You are deceiv’d, love is no work of art,
It must be got and born,
Not made and worn,
By every one that hath a heart.
All overgrown by cunning moss, (146)
© Emily Dickinson
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of Currer Bell
In quiet Haworth laid.
Since the Cities are the Cities
© Henry Lawson
FOOLS can parrot-cry the prophet when the proof is close at hand,
And the blind can see the danger when the foe is in the land!
Truth was never cynicism, death or ruins not a joke,
Told-you-so is not a warningPatriotism not a croak.
The Wealth of the Destitute
© Denise Levertov
How gray and hard the brown feet of the wretched of the earth.
How confidently the crippled from birth
Late Echo
© John Ashbery
Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.
The Harp, And Despair, Of Cowper
© William Lisle Bowles
Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve,
And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere,
In Memoriam Mae Noblitt
© Archie Randolph Ammons
This is just a place:
we go around, distanced,
yearly in a star’s
A Vagabond Song
© Bliss William Carman
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
My Grave
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
If, when I die, I must be buried, let
No cemetery engulph me — no lone grot,
From "Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship" - Book II, Chap. XIII
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
E'en here the penalty we pay,
-----
WHO gives himself to solitude,
Low Barometer
© John Hall Wheelock
The south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.
