All Poems
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The Voyage Of St. Brendan A.D. 545 - The Promised Land
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
As on this world the young man turns his eyes,
When forced to try the dark sea of the grave,
Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise,
Fading, as we were borne across the wave.
After the Winter
© Claude McKay
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
Three Palinodias - 03 Rain And Rainbow
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
DURING a heavy storm it chanced
That from his room a cockney glanced
Africa
© Claude McKay
The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light,
The sciences were sucklings at thy breast;
When all the world was young in pregnant night
Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best.
The Duellist - Book III
© Charles Churchill
Ah me! what mighty perils wait
The man who meddles with a state,
Adolescence
© Claude McKay
There was a time when in late afternoon
The four-o'clocks would fold up at day's close
Pink-white in prayer, and 'neath the floating moon
I lay with them in calm and sweet repose.
A Festal Ode Complimenting An Officer
© Confucius
On dashed my four steeds, without halt, without stay,
Though toilsome and winding from Chow was the way.
I wished to return--but the monarch's command
Forbade that his business be done with slack hand;
And my heart was with sadness oppressed.
Absence
© Claude McKay
Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool,
Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb,
Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties
Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word,
After The Storm
© William Baylebridge
The storm is done-the lightning with its lust
To rend the unhallowed dome in ruin dire;
A Red Flower
© Claude McKay
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Dead Horse In Field
© Robert Penn Warren
At evening I watch the buzzards, the crows,
Arise. They swing black in natures flow and perfection,
High in sad carmine of sunset. Forgiveness
Is not indicated. It is superfluous. They are
What they are.
A Prayer
© Claude McKay
'Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling;
I stumble as I fare along Earth's way; keep me from falling. Mine eyes are open but they cannot see for gloom of night:
I can no more than lift my heart to thee for inward light. The wild and fiery passion of my youth consumes my soul;
In agony I turn to thee for truth and self-control. For Passion and all the pleasures it can give will die the death;
Outside the Curtains the Rain is Murmuring
© Li Yu
Outside the curtains the rain is murmering,
And spring is waning,
A Memory of June
© Claude McKay
When June comes dancing o'er the death of May,
With scarlet roses tinting her green breast,
And mating thrushes ushering in her day,
And Earth on tiptoe for her golden guest,
Psalm LXXXV. (85)
© John Milton
Thy Land to favour graciously
Thou hast not Lord been slack,
Thou hast from hard Captivity
Returned Jacob back.
The Blackbird Of Derrycairn
© Austin Clarke
Stop, stop and listen for the bough top
Is whistling and the sun is brighter
Than God's own shadow in the cup now!
Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins
Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall.
The Dance To Death. Act I
© Emma Lazarus
This play is dedicated, in profound veneration and respect, to the
memory of George Eliot, the illustrious writer, who did most among
the artists of our day towards elevating and ennobling the spirit
of Jewish nationality.
Dionysos
© Madison Julius Cawein
Within my sleep a Maenad came to me:
A harp of crimson agate strung with gold
Wailed 'neath her waxen fingers, and her heart
'Neath the white gauze, thro' which a moonlight shone,
Kept time with its wild throbbings to her song.
Ode To Cheerfulness
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Guide me to thy fav'rite bow'rs,
To deck thy rural shrine with flow'rs.
In thy lowly, sylvan cell,
Peace and virtue love to dwell;
Ever let me own thy sway,
Still to thee my tribute pay.
Yesterday
© Edgar Albert Guest
I've trod the links with many a man,
And played him club for club;
'Tis scarce a year since I began
And I am still a dub.
