All Poems
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Uprooting
© John Montague
My love, while we talked
They removed the roof. Then
They started on the walls,
Panes of glass uprooting
In the Next Street
© Ken Smith
theres only ever one argument: his,
bawling out whoever punctuates
the brief intervals his cussing
| interrupts, something unheard, reason perhaps.
There are Days
© John Montague
There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
To A Child Embracing His Mother
© Thomas Hood
Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Faith
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I'S a-gittin' weary of de way dat people do,
De folks dat's got dey 'ligion in dey fiahplace an' flue;
No Music
© John Montague
I'll tell you a sore truth, little understood
It's harder to leave, than to be left:
To stay, to leave, both sting wrong.
At Currabwee
© Francis Ledwidge
Every night at Currabwee
Little men with leather hats
Mend the boots of Faery
From the tough wings of the bats.
So my mother told to me,
And she is wise you will agree. .
Blessing
© John Montague
A feel of warmth in this place.
In winter air, a scent of harvest.
No form of prayer is needed,
When by sudden grace attended.
The Charm.
© Robert Crawford
O touch her with thy heavenly beams,
Bright Moon! that she may know
Within his paradise of dreams
Love died not long ago.
In The Harbour: Loss And Gain
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
July
© Boris Pasternak
A ghost is roaming through the building,
And shadows in the attic browse;
Persistently intent on mischief
A goblin roams about the house.
Impromptu, In Reply To A Friend
© George Gordon Byron
When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Tom Taylor
© Robert Graves
On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
Kerr's Ass
© Patrick Kavanagh
We borrowed the loan of Kerr's ass
To go to Dundalk with butter,
Brought him home the evening before the market
And exile that night in Mucker.
At Noon--And Midnight
© James Whitcomb Riley
Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own
The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed--yet he awake--alone!
alone!
In vain he courted sleep;--one thought would ever in his heart
arise,--
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.
The Sirens Cave At Tivoli
© Frances Anne Kemble
As o'er the chasm I breathless hung,
Thus from the depths the siren sung:
The Nut
© Jessie Pope
He used to get, when in civilian state,
His tea and shaving water, sharp, at eight.
Then ten delicious minutes would be spent
In one last snooze of exquisite content.
