All Poems
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O, how sad
© Saigyo
O, how sad!
Why of visitors
Should there be not one?
In melancholy, where I dwell
The wind comes upon the bush-clover leaves.
To the Myrtle
© Mary Darby Robinson
UNFADING branch of verdant hue,
In modest sweetness drest,
Shake off thy pearly tears of dew,
And decorate my breast.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude VI.
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom,
That cast upon each listener's face
To the Muse of Poetry
© Mary Darby Robinson
O MUSE ADOR'D, I woo thee now
From yon bright Heaven, to hear my vow;
From thy blest wing a plume I'll steal,
And with its burning point record
Each firm indissoluble word,
And with my lips the proud oath seal!
To Simplicity
© Mary Darby Robinson
[Inscribed to Lady Duncannon.]
SWEET blushing Nymph, who loves to dwell
In the dark forest's silent gloom;
Who smiles within the Hermit's cell,
Sonnet
© Sara Teasdale
I saw a ship sail forth at evening time;
Her prow was gilded by the western fire,
And all her rigging one vast golden lyre,
For winds to play on to the ocean's rhyme
To Rinaldo
© Mary Darby Robinson
SOFT is the balmy breath of May,
When from the op'ning lids of day
Meek twilight steals; and from its wings
Translucent pearls of ether flings.
The Prisoner: Pt 1
© Emily Jane Brontë
In the dungeon crypts idly did I stray,
Reckless of the lives wasting there away;
"Draw the ponderous bars; open, Warder stern!"
He dare not say me naythe hinges harshly turn.
To Leonardo
© Mary Darby Robinson
"Yes, LAURA, yes, pure as the virgin snow's
"That on the bosom of the whirlwind move,,
"For thee my faithful endless passion glows."
The World as It is by Carolyn Miller : American Life in Poetry #269 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2
© Ted Kooser
It is enough for me as a reader that a poem take from life a single moment and hold it up for me to look at. There need not be anything sensational or unusual or peculiar about that moment, but somehow, by directing my attention to it, our attention to it, the poet bathes it in the light of the remarkable. Here is a poem like this by Carolyn Miller, who lives in San Francisco.
To Cesario
© Mary Darby Robinson
CESARIO, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
Thy music would soften its woes.
When The Wine-Cup At The Lip
© Madison Julius Cawein
When the wine-cup at the lip
Slants its sparkling fire,
The Widow's Home
© Mary Darby Robinson
Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a Cot;
O'ershadow'd by broad Alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy
Harlem Shadows
© Claude McKay
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.
The Trumpeter, an Old English Tale
© Mary Darby Robinson
It was in the days of a gay British King
(In the old fashion'd custom of merry-making)
The Palace of Woodstock with revels did ring,
While they sang and carous'd--one and all:
And as its Going
© Anna Akhmatova
And as it's going often at love's breaking,
The ghost of first days came again to us,
The silver willow through window then stretched in,
The silver beauty of her gentle branches.
The Shepherd's Dog
© Mary Darby Robinson
I.A Shepherd's Dog there was; and he
Was faithful to his master's will,
For well he lov'd his company,
Along the plain or up the hill;
