All Poems

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Not Ideas About The Thing But The Thing Itself

© Wallace Stevens

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

In The Prison Pen

© Herman Melville

Listless he eyes the palisades
And sentries in the glare;
'Tis barren as a pelican-beach
But his world is ended there.

A Postcard From The Volcano

© Wallace Stevens

Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;

Tattoo

© Wallace Stevens

The light is like a spider.
It crawls over the water.
It crawls over the edges of the snow.
It crawls under your eyelids
And spreads its webs there--
Its two webs.

The Three Little Pigs

© Roald Dahl

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"
"No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!"
"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer nightWas like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,Wanted to lean, wanted much to be

Influence

© Ada Cambridge

So do our brooding thoughts and deep desires
Grow in our souls, we know not how or why;
Grope for we know not what, all blind and dumb.
So, when the time is ripe, and one aspires
To free his thought in speech, ours hear the cry,
And to full birth and instant knowledge come.

Looking Across The Fields And Watching The Birds Fly

© Wallace Stevens

Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:

Metaphors Of A Magnifico

© Wallace Stevens

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages,
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.

To Stella, Written On The Day Of Her Birth. March 13, 1723-4, But Not On The Subject, When I Was Sic

© Jonathan Swift

Tormented with incessant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains?
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verse to Stella's native day:

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

© Wallace Stevens

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,How he had recomposed the pines,

Phanopoeia

© Ezra Pound

II
SALTUS
The swirling sphere has opened
and you are caught up to the skies,
You are englobed in my sapphire.
Io! Io!

Of Modern Poetry

© Wallace Stevens

The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.

Sonnet VIII.

© Christopher Pearse Cranch

You were not born to hide such gifts as yours
'Neath dreary law-books, nor amid the dust
And dry routine of desks to sit and rust
Where clerks plod through their tasks on office-floors.

A Rabbit As King Of The Ghosts

The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur

True

The shoemaker sticks to his last and he's right;
By divorce, though, we wouldn't be cursed,
If everyone else in this great world of ours
Would be willing to stick to his first.

Valley Candle

My candle burned alone in an immense valley.
Beams of the huge night converged upon it,
Until the wind blew.
The beams of the huge night
Converged upon its image,
Until the wind blew.

To My Worthy Friend Mr. Peter Lilly: On That Excellent Pict

Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies,
And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes;
He cures his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight
Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;
Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,
And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.

The Idea Of Order At Key West

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.