All Poems
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To Lucasta
© Richard Lovelace
I.
I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
Whether the folly on't sounds well;
But then I groan,
Supple Cord by Naomi Shihab Nye: American Life in Poetry #107 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20
© Ted Kooser
Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite poets. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, and travels widely, an ambassador for poetry. Here she captures a lovely moment from her childhood.
Why Do I Love?
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Why do I love?
Is it for men to choose
The hour of the hushed night when crowned with dews
From its sea grave the morning star shall wake?
Sonnet XII
© Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa
As the lone, frighted user of a night-road
Suddenly turns round, nothing to detect,
Alfred. Book V.
© Henry James Pye
As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.
Dulce Domum,
© Helen Maria Williams
AN OLD LATIN ODE.
SUNG ANNUALLY BY THE WlNCHESTER BOYS UPON
LEAVING COLLEGE AT THE VACATION. [Translated at the Request of DR. JOSEPH WARTON.]
Book Fourteenth [conclusion]
© William Wordsworth
In one of those excursions (may they ne'er
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts
A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged 3 Years and 5 months
© Thomas Hood
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Don't Be Cruel to the Motherless Darlings
© Henry Clay Work
I must let go each little hand;
I must leave all behind.
Oh! don't be cruel to the motherless darlings;
Don't be unkind!
The Old House
© Madison Julius Cawein
Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
Blue iron-weeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones slug and toad
Silent as lichens lie.
An Essay on Death and a Prison
© Henry King
A prison is in all things like a grave,
Where we no better priviledges have
Then dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled
Lives freer now, then when she was cloystered
The Grave Of The Countess Potocki
© Adam Mickiewicz
In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Inscribed To The Pathetic Memory Of The Poet Henry Timrod
© Madison Julius Cawein
_Long are the days, and three times long the nights.
The weary hours are a heavy chain
Acceptance
© Langston Hughes
God in His infinite wisdom
Did not make me very wise-
So when my actions are stupid
They hardly take God by surprise
The Tasmanian Aborigine's Lament
© Anonymous
Fair island of my birth, thy distant rocks
Call forth the tenderest feelings of my heart;
Although the sight of thee my yearning mocks,
For cruel waves thee from my children part.
Ah! White man, why---Oh! Why thy childhood's home
Did'st thou abandon, to drive us from ours?
Gibberish
© Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Many a flower have I seen blossom,
Many a bird for me will sing.
Never heard I so sweet a singer,
Never saw I so fair a thing.
Written At Bath To A Young Lady
© Mary Barber
This I resolv'd; but still in vain--
We both must unreveng'd remain:
For I, alas! remember now,
I long ago had made a Vow,
That, should the Nine their Aid refuse,
Envy should never be my Muse.
