Poems begining by B

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94

Bequeathal

© Roderic Quinn

THE night-birds cry in the bush outside,
And I write here, though the hour be late;
And what shall I write of the man who died?
"He gave his gold to the poor at his gate!"

Bouche-Mignonne

© Isabella Valancy Crawford

BOUCHE-MIGNONNE lived in the mill,
Past the vineyards shady,
Where the sun shone on a rill
Jewelled like a lady.

Butterfly.

© Robert Crawford

In the fierce light the butterfly wings free
So delicate, and yet so fibred to
Withstand the stress a giant would faint under.

Bullocky

© Judith Wright

Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:

By The Hearth-Stone

© Sir Henry Newbolt

By the hearth-stone
She sits alone,
The long night bearing:
With eyes that gleam
Into the dream
Of the firelight staring.

Botany Bay 1786

© Anonymous

O'er Neptune's domain, how extensive the scope,
Of quickly returning, how defiant the hope,
he Capes must be doubled, and then bear away
Three thousand good leagues to reach Botany Bay.

Brave Alum Bey

© William Schwenck Gilbert

Oh, big was the bosom of brave ALUM BEY,
And also the region that under it lay,
In safety and peril remarkably cool,
And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.

Book Of Suleika - In Thousand Form

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

IN thousand forms mayst thou attempt surprise,

Yet, all-beloved-one, straight know I thee;

IT was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;
Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.
Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,
And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed
But Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: "Drive the Boche from where they're hid.
For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!" and so they did.

Birthday Wishes to a Physician

© Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer

Music ringing,
On the air,
Flowers springing
Everywhere.

Bodys Blood

© Arthur Symons

And if I love you more than my own soul

Then must you die and I shall never die

Broadcaster's Poem

© Alden Nowlan

I thought about places
the disc jockey's voice goes
and the things that happen there
and of how impossible it would be for him
to continue if he really knew.

Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe by Bill Holm: American Life in Poetry #90 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet

© Ted Kooser

Anyone can write a poem that nobody can understand, but poetry is a means of communication, and this column specializes in poems that communicate. What comes more naturally to us than to instruct someone in how to do something? Here the Minnesota poet and essayist Bill Holm, who is of Icelandic parentage, shows us how to make something delicious to eat.

Briggflatts - Part I

Boomer Johnson

Now Mr. Boomer Johnson was a gettin' old in spots,
But you don't expect a bad man to go wrastlin' pans and pots;
But he'd done his share of killin' and his draw was gettin' slow,
So he quits a-punchin' cattle and he takes to punchin' dough.

Bride of the Fire

Bride of the Fire, clasp me now close, -
Bride of the Fire!
I have shed the bloom of the earthly rose,
I have slain desire.

Bill and Jim Fall Out

© Henry Lawson

Bill believed the Bible story re the origin of him
He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,
Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,
Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.