All Poems
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Wild Grapes
© Robert Frost
What tree may not the fig be gathered from?
The grape may not be gathered from the birch?
It's all you know the grape, or know the birch.
As a girl gathered from the birch myself
An Acre Of Grass
© William Butler Yeats
PICTURE and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.
To Earthward
© Robert Frost
Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air
The Suburban Classes
© Stevie Smith
There is far too much of the suburban classes
Spiritually not geographically speaking. Theyre asses.
The Investment
© Robert Frost
Over back where they speak of life as staying
('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'),
There was an old, old house renewed with paint,
And in it a piano loudly playing.
The Flood
© Robert Frost
Blood has been harder to dam back than water.
Just when we think we have it impounded safe
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XIX. -- King Olaf's War-
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
"Strike the sails!" King Olaf said;
"Never shall men of mine take flight;
Never away from battle I fled,
Never away from my foes!
Let God dispose
Of my life in the fight!"
The Birthplace
© Robert Frost
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
To Phyllis And May
© Ellis Parker Butler
O! fair, sweet Phyllis and sweet, fair May,
Which of you carried my heart away?
Who has my heart? I would like to know
Which was the guilty one of the two,
But I only know it was filched one day
By fair, sweet Phyllis, or sweet, fair May.
Sand Dunes
© Robert Frost
Sea waves are green and wet,
But up from where they die,
Rise others vaster yet,
And those are brown and dry.
The Wold Vok Dead
© William Barnes
My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,
An' childern now a-comèn on,
Riders
© Robert Frost
The surest thing there is is we are riders,
And though none too successful at it, guiders,
Through everything presented, land and tide
And now the very air, of what we ride.
The War Sonnets: II Safety
© Rupert Brooke
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Revelation
© Robert Frost
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated hear
Till someone really find us out.
Shriven
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
A.D. 1425.
I have let the world go.
Thats the door that closed
Behind the holy father. I am shrived.
Mowing
© Robert Frost
There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
A Little Christmas Basket
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
De win' is hollahin' "Daih you" to de shuttahs an' de fiah,
De snow's a-sayin' "Got you" to de groun',
Looking For a Sunset Bird in Winter
© Robert Frost
The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.
It Was Upon
© Edward Thomas
And as an unaccomplished prophecy
The stranger's words, after the interval
Of a score years, when those fields are by me
Never to be recrossed, now I recall,
This July eve, and question, wondering,
What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring?
