All Poems

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THIS is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.
Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;
Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,
Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,

Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye

© Gerald Stern

Every city in America is approached
through a work of art, usually a bridge
but sometimes a road that curves underneath
or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel—

Tears for Lesbias Sparrow

© Gaius Valerius Catullus

Sparrow, my sweet girls delight,

whom she plays with, holds to her breast,

When I Heard the Learnd Astronomer

© Walt Whitman

When I heard the learnd astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

A Wish

© Hamlin Garland

ALL day and many days I rode,

My horses head set toward the sea;

A Witch

© William Barnes

There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past!

I wish the ugly sly wold witch

Balloon

© John Kinsella

It didn’t happen in that order—

the endless growl of what will turn out to be

A Christmas Carol

© Christina Georgina Rossetti

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan,

Gareth And Lynette

© Alfred Tennyson

To whom the mother said,
'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
And handed down the golden treasure to him.'

A pot poured out

© Samuel Menashe

A pot poured out

Fulfills its spout

Market Women’s Cries

© Jonathan Swift

APPLES

Come buy my fine wares,

I Am The World

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

I am the song, that rests upon the cloud;

I am the sun

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

© André Breton

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Mont Blanc

Mount! I have watcht thee, at the fall of dew,
Array thee in thy panoply of gold,--
And then cast over it thy rosy vest,--
And last that awful robe that looks so cold,
Thy ghastly spectre--dress of nameless hue:
Then thou art least of earth, and then I love thee best.

Woman with Girdle

© Anne Sexton

Your midriff sags toward your knees;

your breast lie down in air,

The Echo Elf Answers

© Thomas Hardy

How much shall I love her?
For life, or not long?
Not long.

Yea, The Roses Are Still On Fire

Yea, the roses are still on fire
With the bygone heat of July,
Though the least little wind drifting by
Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier,
Be it never so soft a sigh.