All Poems
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Behold the Deeds!
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans.
There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
The Gods Of Greece
© John Kenyon
Ye Gods of Greece! Bright Fictions! when
Ye ruled, of old, a happier race,
The Burial of Saint Brendan
© Padraic Colum
ON the third day from this (Saint Brendan said)
I will be where no wind that filled a sail
Ce que c'est que la mort
© Victor Marie Hugo
Ne dites pas : mourir ; dites : naître. Croyez.
On voit ce que je vois et ce que vous voyez ;
On est l'homme mauvais que je suis, que vous êtes ;
On se rue aux plaisirs, aux tourbillons, aux fêtes ;
The Flowers Have Tender Little Souls
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The flowers have tender little souls
That love, rejoice, aspire.
We Needs Must Be Divided In The Tomb
© George Santayana
Let gallants lie beside their ladies' dust
In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned;
Let the sea part our ashes, if it must,
The souls fled thence which love immortal burned,
For they were wedded without bond of lust,
And nothing of our heart to earth returned.
Castles in the Air
© Thomas Love Peacock
My thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:
For in the past alone I build
My castles in the air.
Whos Dot Pulleteen?
© Henry Lawson
Let dose mountains fall and hide us
Gry benighded odersiders,
Shame come round and woe betide us,
Und our fellow men deride us
If we effer yet can find oud
Whos dot Western Pull-it-in?
Down The Lanes Of August
© Edgar Albert Guest
DOWN the lanes of Augustand the bees upon the wing,
All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;
Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
God Made This Day For Me
© Edgar Albert Guest
This is jes' my style o' weather-sunshine floodin' all the place,
An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face;
An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had
A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.
Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,
An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.
Hurry by Marie Howe : American Life in Poetry #218 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Here is one of my favorite mother-daughter poems, by Marie Howe, who lives in New York City and who has a charming little girl.
Hurry
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
Mon Reve Familier
© Paul Verlaine
Oft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite dwell
The same,--and loves me well, and knows me as I am.
Antiphon II.
© George Herbert
Chor. Praised be the God of love,
Men. Here below,
Angels. And here above:
