All Poems
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Sonnet XII. To Mrs. Siddons
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
As when a child on some long winter's night
Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees
With eager wond'ring and perturbed delight
Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
Dream Song 102: The sunburnt terraces which swans make home
© John Berryman
The sunburnt terraces which swans make home
with water purling, Macchu Pichu died
like Delphi long agoâ
a message to Justinian closing it out,
the thousand years' authority, although
tho' never found exactly wrong
Sweet MountainsYe tell Me no lie
© Emily Dickinson
Sweet MountainsYe tell Me no lie
Never deny MeNever fly
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Mewhen I failor feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain
Their farslowViolet Gaze
Dream Song 86: Op. posth. no. 9
© John Berryman
The conclusion is growing . . . I feel sure, my lord,
this august court will entertain the plea
Not Guilty by reason of death.
I can say no more except that for the record
I add that all the crimes since all the times he
died will be due to the breath
The Feast Of Lights
© Emma Lazarus
Kindle the taper like the steadfast star
Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth,
Dream Song 81: Op. posth. no. 4
© John Berryman
He loom' so cagey he say 'Leema beans'
and measured his intake to the atmosphere
of that fairly stable country.
His ear hurt. Left. The rock-cliffs, a mite sheer
at his age, in these places.
Scrubbing out his fear,â
Dream Song 126: A Thurn
© John Berryman
Not of these least is borne to rest.
If grandeur & mettle prompted his lone journey
neither oh crowded shelved
nor this slab I celebrates attest
his complex slow fame forever (more or less).
I imagine the Abbey
See They Come, Post Haste From Thanet
© Jane Austen
Down the hill they're swift proceeding,
Now they skirt the Park around;
Lo! The Cattle sweetly feeding
Scamper, startled at the sound!
Dream Song 57: In a state of chortle sin--once he reflected
© John Berryman
In a state of chortle sinâonce he reflected,
swilling tomato juiceâlive I, and did
more than my thirstier years.
To Hell then will it maul me? for good talk,
and gripe of retail loss? I dare say not.
I don't thÃnk there's that place
Sotto Voce
© Walter de la Mare
At foot a few sparse harebells: blue
And still as were the friend's dark eyes
That dwelt on mine, transfixèd through
With sudden ecstatic surmise.
Dream Song 92: Room 231: the fourth week
© John Berryman
Tulips from Tates teazed Henry in the mood
to be a tulip and desire no more
but water, but light, but air.
Yet his nerves rattled blackly, unsubdued,
& suffocation called, dream-whiskey'd pour
sirening. Rosy there
Famam Librosque Cano
© Ezra Pound
A book is known by them that read
That same. Thy public in my screed
Is listed. Well! Some score years hence
Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
Dream Song 91: Op. posth. no. 14
© John Berryman
Noises from underground made gibber some
others collected & dug henry up
saying 'You are a sight.'
Chilly, he muttered for a double rum
waving the mikes away, putting a stop
to rumors, pushing his fright
Dream Song 115: Her properties, like her of course & frisky & new
© John Berryman
Her properties, like her of course & frisky & new:
a stale cake sold to kids, a 7-foot weed
inside in the Great Neck night,
a record ('great'), her work all over as u-
sual rejected. She odd in a bakery.
The owner stand beside her
Dream Song 85: Op. posth. no. 8
© John Berryman
Flak. An eventful thought came to me,
who squirm in my hole. How will the matter end?
Who's king these nights?
What happened to . . . day? Are ships abroad?
I would like to but may not entertain a friend.
Save me from ghastly frights,
Dreams In Rome
© Arthur Symons
What is it that sings a sleepy tune in my head?
Some faint old forgotten moon that is dead?
I will arise, for the dreams are about my bed.
Dream Song 97: Henry of Donnybrook bred like a pig
© John Berryman
Henry of Donnybrook bred like a pig,
bred when he was brittle, bred when big,
how he's sweating to support them.
Which birthday of the brighter darker man,
the Goya of the Globe & Blackfriars, whomâ
our full earth smiled on him
Spring
© Ernst Toller
In spring I go to war
To sing or to die.
What do I care for my own troubles?
Today I shatter them, laughing in pieces.
