All Poems
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The Beaks Of Eagles
© Robinson Jeffers
An eagle's nest on the head of an old redwood on one of the
precipice-footed ridges
Australian Federata
© James Lister Cuthbertson
AUSTRALIA! land of lonely lake
And serpent-haunted fen;
"There Are the Words..."
© Anna Akhmatova
There are the words that couldnt be twice said,
He, who said once, spent out all his senses.
Only two things have never their end
The heavens blue and the Creators mercy.
On The World
© Francis Quarles
The world's an Inn; and I her guest.
I eat; I drink; I take my rest.
My hostess, nature, does deny me
Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;
Where, having stayed a while, I pay
Her lavish bills, and go my way.
Prototypes
© Madison Julius Cawein
Whether it be that we in letters trace
The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,
Editing Poetry
© Karl Shapiro
Next to my office where I edit poems ("Can poems be edited?") there is the Chicago Models club. All day the girls stroll past my door where I am editing poems, behind my head a signed photograph of Rupert Brooke, handsomer than any movie star. I edit, keeping one eye peeled for models, straining my ears to hear what they say. In there they photograph the girls on the bamboo furniture, glossies for the pulsing facades of night spots. One day the manager brings me flowers, a huge and damaged bouquet: hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns (least hurt), and bruised carnations. I accept the gift, remainder of last night's opening (where?), debut of lower-class blondes. I distribute the flowers in the other poetry rooms, too formal-looking for our disarray.
Now after every model's bow to the footlights the manager brings more flowers, hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns, and bruised carnations. I edit poems to the click of sharp high heels, flanked by the swords of lavendar debut, whiffing the cinnamon of crepe-paper-pink carnations of the bruised and lower-class blondes.
Behind me rears my wall of books, most formidable of himan barriers. No flower depresses me like the iris but these I have a fondness for. They bring stale memories ver the threshold of the street. They bring the night of cloth palm trees and soft plastic leopard charis, night of sticky drinks, the shining rhinestone hour in the dark-blue mirror, the peroxide chat of models and photogenic morn.
Today the manager brings all gladioli. A few rose petals lie in the corridor. The mail is heavy this morning.
The Missionary - Canto Seventh
© William Lisle Bowles
The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,
And swelling to the morn the streamers flew;
He Has Not Lived In Vain
© Edgar Albert Guest
HE has not lived in vain
If men can say
When he has passed away:
He labored not for gain."
Semper Eadem (Ever The Same)
© Charles Baudelaire
«D'où vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange,
Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu?»
Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange
Vivre est un mal. C'est un secret de tous connu,
Song. "You gave your love a posy and she set it on a stand"
© Frances Anne Kemble
You gave your love a posy and she set it on a stand,
Where it freshly bloom'd and sweetly did smell:
Fragment
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Within the soldier's helmet see
The nesting dove;
Venus and Mars, it seems to me,
In love.
Travels By The Fireside. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main,
The Union
© Alfred Noyes
You that have gathered together the sons of all races,
And welded them into one,
Lifting the torch of your Freedom on hungering faces
That sailed to the setting sun;
The Quiet Pilgrim:
© Edith Matilda Thomas
WHEN on my soul in nakedness
His swift, avertless hand did press,
Beauty Arise
© Thomas Dekker
Beauty arise, Beauty arise, thy glorious lights display,
Whilst we sing Io, glad to see this day.
Io, Io, to Hymen, Io, Io, sing ;
Of wedlock, love, and youth is Hymen king.
To Myrtilla Again
© Franklin Pierce Adams
When, as I may have said before,
Your image I can not ignore,
I do not tear
My thinning hair
Nor cuss;
Wait For The Morning
© James Whitcomb Riley
Wait for the morning:--It will come, indeed,
As surely as the night hath given need.
Sonnet. On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story of Rimini'
© John Keats
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
