All Poems
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Michael: A Pastoral Poem
© William Wordsworth
Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
Sleep Is A Spirit
© Madison Julius Cawein
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,
Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;
Limitations Of Genius
© James Whitcomb Riley
The audience entire seemed pleased--indeed
_Extremely_ pleased. And little Maymie, freed
From her task of instructing, ran to show
Her wondrous colored picture to and fro
Among the company.
If You Said You Would Come With Me
© John Ashbery
In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.”
Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away.”
“Yes . . . and then?” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood.
“Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr. . . .”
The Old Major Explains
© Francis Bret Harte
Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:
For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;
And my leg is getting troublesome,--it laid me up last fall,--
And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.
What the Sexton Said
© Roald Dahl
Your dust will be upon the wind
Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country’s tears.
Book Of Suleika - Love For Love
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Yet thou feeblest, at my lay,
Ever some half-hidden sorrow;
Could I Joseph's graces borrow,
To The Lady Elizabeth Harley, Since Marchioness Of Carmarthen, On A Column Of Her Drawing
© Matthew Prior
When future ages shall with wonder view
These glorious lines which Harley's daughter drew,
They shall confess that Britain could not raise
A fairer column to the father's praise.
Truth Serum
© Naomi Shihab Nye
We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.
Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,
The Evening Darkens Over
© John Hall Wheelock
The evening darkens over
After a day so bright
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There’s sound of distant thunder.
To an Echo on the Banks of the Hunter [Early Version]
© Charles Harpur
I hear thee, echo! And I start to hear thee
With a strange shock, as from among the hills
Breitmann As An Uhlan. II. Brietmann In A Balloon.
© Charles Godfrey Leland
WHO vas efer hear soosh voonders,
Holy breest or virshin nonn?
As pefelled de Coptain Breitmann,
Vhen he hoont an air-ballon.
Feel Me
© May Swenson
“Feel me to do right,” our father said on his deathbed.
We did not quite know—in fact, not at all—what he meant.
O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy
© Walt Whitman
O tan-faced prairie-boy,
Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift,
Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the recruits,
You came, taciturn, with nothing to give we but lookd on each other,
When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.
Thanksgiving
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When first in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
He Sees Through Stone
© Etheridge Knight
the years fall
like overripe plums
bursting red flesh
on the dark earth
