All Poems
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Sonnet From The Portuguese Of Semedo
© William Cullen Bryant
It is a fearful night; a feeble glare
Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky;
Disillusioned
© Corinna
People holding hands, daring to love,
children playing, no one left out,
believing in a God, high above,
no reasons given to cry out loud.
A New-Years Burden
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown
Our way this day in Spring.
Your grief....
© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.
Breitmann In La Sorbonne
© Charles Godfrey Leland
DER Breitmann sits in la Sorbonne,
A note-pook in his hand,
'Tvas dere he vent to lectures,
Und in oldt Louis le Grand.
To The Golden Heart That He Wore Around His Neck
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
And seeks the forest green,
Proof of imprisonment he bears behind him,
A morsel of the thread once used to bind him;
Giving Thanks
© Stefan Anton George
The summer field is parched with evil fire,
And from a shoreland trail of trodden clover
From Mythology
© Zbigniew Herbert
First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leaped, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.
Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.
A Summer In Tuscany
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Do you remember, Lucy,
How, in the days gone by
We spent a summer together,
A summer in Tuscany,
In the chestnut woods by the river,
You and the rest and I?
My Pen Has Ink Enough
© Vernon Scannell
My pen has ink enough, I'm going to start
A piece of verse, but suddenly my heart
And something in my head jerks in reverse.
The New Zealot To The Sun
© Herman Melville
Persian, you rise
Aflame from climes of sacrifice
Where adulators sue,
And prostrate man, with brow abased,
Adheres to rites whose tenor traced
All worship hitherto.
Cretonne Tropics
© Grace Hazard Conkling
The cretonne in your willow chair
Shows through a zone of rosy air,
A Hunting Song
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,
If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford;
And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,
If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.
A Maid Who Died Old
© Madison Julius Cawein
Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn,
That life has carved with care and doubt!
So weary waiting, night and morn,
For that which never came about!
Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn,
In which God's light at last is out.
AN ELEGY Upon the death of Mr. Edward Holt
© Henry King
VVhether thy Fathers, or diseases rage,
More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,
Our sorrow needs not question; since the first
Is known for length and sharpness much the worst.
The Homecomers Song
© Edgar Albert Guest
Then it's home once again,
Where the dear ones await,
And it's back in the land of the free;
And it's back once again
In my own native state,
This country's the country for me.
To A Noisy Contemporary
© Weldon Kees
Your egos bad dream drums that vision
Encountered on page one, pages three to eighty-nine.
Count the wound-up places where we went aground.
As an entertainment, zero. Hero horror. Try the line
