All Poems
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At Forty Years
© Friedrich Rückert
When for forty years we've climbed the rugged mountain,
We stop and backward gaze;
Yonder still we see our childhood's peaceful fountain,
And youth exulting strays.
Proem.
© Robert Crawford
I only knew one poet in my life.
BROWNING.
I have not known a poet but myself,
If I'm indeed one, as I ought to be,
Wild nights - Wild nights! (269)
© Emily Dickinson
Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Spirit's Song
© Louisa Stuart Costello
'Tis thy Spirit calls theecome away!
I have sought thee through the weary day,
I have dived in the glassy stream for thee
I have gone wherever a spirit might be:
Psalm 51
© Mary Sidney Herbert
O Lord, whose grace no limits comprehend;
Sweet Lord, whose mercies stand from measure free;
The Bard
© Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky
My friends, can you descry that mound of earth
Above clear waters in the shade of trees?
Sonnets Of The Blood VIII
© Allen Tate
Not power nor the casual hand of God
Shall keep us whole in our dissevering air,
Whispers of Immortality
© Thomas Stearns Eliot
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
All The Dead Dears
© Sylvia Plath
Rigged poker -stiff on her back
With a granite grin
This antique museum-cased lady
Lies, companioned by the gimcrack
Relics of a mouse and a shrew
That battened for a day on her ankle-bone.
To A Poet Of Quality. Praising The Lady Hinchinbroke
© Matthew Prior
Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks henceforth upon as dowdies.
At the California Institute of Technology
© Jack Gilbert
I don’t care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I’m bored.
Faded pictures
© William Vaughn Moody
NLY two patient eyes to stare
Out of the canvas. All the rest-
Nostalgia
© Billy Collins
The 1790s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
A Birthday Gift
© Robert Fuller Murray
No gift I bring but worship, and the love
Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;
Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;
Postpartum Blues
© Joseph Brodsky
But what's in the way
To the way in? God,
That desperate explanation,
Mentor and tormentor, giving us
The duties of paradise,
Responsibilities - Closing
© William Butler Yeats
While I, that reed-throated whisperer
Who comes at need, although not now as once
Preparatory Meditations - First Series: 39
© Edward Taylor
My sin! My sin, my God, these cursed dregs,
Green, yellow, blue-streaked poison hellish, rank,
Bubs hatched in nature's nest on serpents' eggs,
Yelp, chirp, and cry; they set my soul a-cramp.
I frown, chide, strike, and fight them, mourn and cry
To conquer them, but cannot them destroy.
The Long Evenings of Their Leavetakings
© Eavan Boland
My mother was married by the water.
She wore a gray coat and a winter rose.
