All Poems
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The Tomb of Charles Baudelaire
© Stéphane Mallarme
The buried temple shows by the sewer-mouths
Sepulchral slobber of mud and rubies,
Some abominable statue of Anubis,
The muzzle lit like a ferocious snout
Saint Brandan
© Matthew Arnold
Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhood of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late!such storms!The Saint is mad!
Serenade
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
DARK is the iris meadow,
Dark is the ivory tower,
And lightly the young moth's shadow
Sleeps on the passion-flower.
Sonnet 142: "Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,..."
© William Shakespeare
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
Amis, un dernier mot!
© Victor Marie Hugo
Amis, un dernier mot!
Toi, vertu, pleure si je meurs!
André Chénier.
Amis, un dernier mot ! - et je ferme à jamais
Recollections Of Cornwall
© Robert Laurence Binyon
To R. G. R. and H. P. P.
Let not the mind, that would have peace,
Too much repose on former joy,
Nor in pourtraying past delight
Her needed, active power employ!
Nemesis
© Henry Lawson
It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.
The White Road Up Athirt The Hill
© William Barnes
WHEN high hot zuns da strik right down,
An' burn our zweaty fiazen brown,
Tiny Feet
© Gabriela Mistral
A child's tiny feet,
Blue, blue with cold,
How can they see and not protect you?
Oh, my God!
"And Pushkin's Exile Had..."
© Anna Akhmatova
And Pushkin's exile had begun right here,
And Lermontov's expulsion had been "canceled."
There is the easy grasses' scent on highland.
And only once it chanced to me to see it --
Life
© Peter McArthur
DEAR God, I thank Thee for this resting place,
This fleshly temple where my soul may dwell,
Last Eve
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
birds, it is over and done, your last passion has paled;
The world has no place for your flight nor my heart for your screams.
O hopes that were hopeless, sweet dreams that were ever as dreams,
Let go! get back to your graves, you have fought and have failed.
Sonnet XIX: Restore Thy Tresses
© Samuel Daniel
Restore thy tresses to the golden ore,
Yield Citherea's son those arcs of love,
Grey Hours: Naples
© Arthur Symons
There are some hours when I seem so indifferent; all things fade
To an indifferent greyness, like that grey of the sky;
Only A Building
© Edgar Albert Guest
For it isn't the marble, nor is it the stone,
Nor is it the columns of steel,
By which is the worth of an edifice known,
But by something that's living and real.
Neighbors in October by David Baker: American Life in Poetry #5 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-
© Ted Kooser
Though many of us were taught that poems have hidden meanings that must be discovered and pried out like the meat from walnuts, a poem is not a puzzle, but an experience. Here David Baker makes a gift to us through his deft description of an ordinary scene. Reading, we accept the experience of a poem and make it a part of our lives, just as we would take in the look of a mountain we passed on a trip. The poet's use of the words "we" and "neighbors" subtly underline the fact that all of us are members of the human community, much alike, facing the changing seasons together.
