All Poems
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When Father Played Baseball
© Edgar Albert Guest
The smell of arnica is strong,
And mother's time is spent
The Two Loves
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
Now Neath the Cool Stars
© Leon Gellert
Now neath the cool stars
I know thee more.
Here where the world wars
By the winding shore.
The Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie
© Robert Burns
Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
The Pillar Box
© Katherine Mansfield
The pillar box is fat and red,
The pillar box is high;
It has the flattest sort of head
And not a nose or eye,
But just one open nigger mouth
That grins when I go by.
Eighteenth Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
It is so-ope thine eyes, and see -
What viewest thou all around?
A desert, where iniquity
And knowledge both abound.
The Moors
© Edith Nesbit
NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
To James Bromley With "Wordsworth's Grave"
© William Watson
Ere vandal lords with lust of gold accurst
Deface each hallowed hillside we revere--
The Orchard
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Almond, apple, and peach,
Walnut, cherry, plum,
Ash, chestnut, and beech,
And lime and sycamore
We have planted for days to come;
Babys First Word
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WE watched our baby day by day,
With earnest expectation,
To hear his infant lips unclose
In vague articulation.
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XX
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
ON FALLING ILL THROUGH GRIEF
Truce to thee, Soul! I have a debt to pay,
Which I acknowledge and without thy pleading.
I like thee little that thou barrest my way
Lines -- for Berkshire Jubilee, Aug. 23, 1844
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
Come back to your mother, ye children, for shame,
Who have wandered like truants for riches or fame!
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.
In the Wings
© Bliss William Carman
THE play is Life; and this round earth
The narrow stage whereon
We act before an audience
Of actors dead and gone.
Golden Dell
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
BEYOND our moss-grown pathway lies
A dell so fair, to genial eyes,
It dawns an ever-fresh surprise!
Other Men
© Sara Teasdale
When I talk with other men
I always think of you -
Your words are keener than their words,
And they are gentler, too.
Written In Germany On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century
© William Wordsworth
A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Poor Patriarch by Susie Patlove : American Life in Poetry #245 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2
© Ted Kooser
I love the way the following poem by Susie Patlove opens, with the little rooster trying to “be what he feels he must be.” This poet lives in Massachusetts, in a community called Windy Hill, which must be a very good place for chickens, too.
Poor Patriarch
The rooster pushes his head
