All Poems

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Basho's Death Poem

© Matsuo Basho

Sick on my journey,
only my dreams will wander
these desolate moors

My Mother-Land

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

Death! What of death?--
Can he who once drew honorable breath
In liberty's pure sphere,
Foster a sensual fear,
When death and slavery meet him face to face,

Phillis I Long Yr Powr Have Ownd

© Thomas Parnell

Phillis I long yr powr have ownd

& you still gently swayd

Pretty

© Stevie Smith

Why is the word pretty so underrated?
In November the leaf is pretty when it falls
The stream grows deep in the woods after rain
And in the pretty pool the pike stalks

Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation

© Alexander Pope

As some fond virgin, whom her mothers care

Drags from the town to wholesome country air,

Epicoene, or the Silent Woman: Still to be neat, still to be drest

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

All Quiet Along the Potomac

© Ethel Lynn Eliot Beers

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"

Except here and there a stray picket

Years Of The Modern

© Walt Whitman

YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform'd!

Your horizon rises-I see it parting away for more august dramas;

Vermeer

© Debora Greger

Every seaworthy vessel a woman
whose mate, eloquent of how she handled
under the worst of weathers, hailed his goddess
of wet fire, handmaid and dockside whore.

Knowlwood

© William Barnes

I don't want to sleep abrode, John,

I do like my hwomeward road, John;

Synopsis for a German Novella

© John Fuller

The Doctor is glimpsed among his mulberry trees.
The dark fruits disfigure the sward like contusions.
He is at once aloof, timid, intolerant
Of all banalities of village life,
And yet is stupefied by loneliness.

The House of Life: 73. The Choice, III

Nay, come up hither. From this wave-wash'd mound
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;
Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd.
Miles and miles distant though the last line be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,—
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry: American Life in Poetry #17 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureat

© Ted Kooser

Nearly all of us spend too much of our lives thinking about what has happened, or worrying about what's coming next. Very little can be done about the past and worry is a waste of time. Here the Kentucky poet Wendell Berry gives himself over to nature.

The Peace of Wild Things