All Poems
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Irene
© James Russell Lowell
Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear;
Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies,
Mussel Hunter At Rock Harbor
© Sylvia Plath
Inched from their pygmy burrows
And from the trench-dug mud, all Camouflaged in mottled mail
Of browns and greens. Each wore one
Claw swollen to a shield large
As itself-no fiddler's arm
Grown Gargantuan by trade,
Tristrams End
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Tristram
Isoult, Isoult, thy kiss!
To sorrow though I was made,
I die in bliss, in bliss.
Translation From The Medea Of Euripides
© George Gordon Byron
When fierce conflicting urge
The breast where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
Sonnet 138: "When my love swears that she is made of truth,..."
© William Shakespeare
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
How A Fisherman Corked Up His Foe In A Jar
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
The Moral: When fortune you strike,
And you've slipped through a dangerous crack,
Get as forward as ever you like,
But never, oh, never get back!
To The Reverend Patrick Murdoch, Rector Of Stradishall, In Suffolk
© James Thomson
Thus safely low, my friend, thou canst not fall:
Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all;
Three Students
© Johann Ludwig Uhland
Three students once tarried over the Rhine,
And into Frau Wirthin's turned to dine.
"Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine?
And where is that pretty daughter of thine?"
A Ballad Of Claremont Hill
© Henry Van Dyke
The roar of the city is low,
Muffled by new-fallen snow,
A Summer Pilgrimage
© John Greenleaf Whittier
To kneel before some saintly shrine,
To breathe the health of airs divine,
Beneath the Moon, Before the Steps
© Li Yu
Beneath the moon, before the steps, all cherry blossom has fallen,
Enwreathed in smoke, she looks sorrowful lying in bed.
The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo Again
© William Schwenck Gilbert
I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
Duck at Haldon Ponds
© Ken Smith
Green of her tail feathers,
space of her neck doubled in water
paddles off with my mind.
Atlas; Or The Minister Of State
© Jonathan Swift
TO THE LORD TREASURER OXFORD 1710
Atlas, we read in ancient song,
The Caged Bird
© Arthur Symons
A year ago I asked you for your soul;
I took it in my hands, it weighed as light
Homage To Sextus Propertius - I
© Ezra Pound
Flame burns, rain sinks into the cracks
And they all go to rack ruin beneath the thud of the years.
Stands genius a deathless adornment,
a name not to be worn out with the years.
A Digit Of The Moon
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
This book is written for Man's ultimate need,
A creed of joy sent down to the aged Earth
From days of happier daring and more mirth
To comfort and console all hearts that bleed.
