Poems begining by E
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Encouragement
© Madison Julius Cawein
To help our tired hope to toil,
Lo! have we not the council here
Of trees, that to all hope appear
As sermons of the soil?
Elegy XXVI. Describing the Sorrow of An Ingeneous Mind
© William Shenstone
Why mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye,
That eye where mirth, where fancy, used to shine?
Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.
El Desdichado
© Gerard de Nerval
I am the shadowy - the widowed - sadly mute,
At ruined tower still the Prince of Aquitaine:
My single star is dead - my constellated lute
Now bears the sable sun of melancholy pain.
Epitaph For A Darling Lady
© Dorothy Parker
All her hours were yellow sands,
Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;
Slipping warmly through her hands;
Patted into little castles.
Epitaph on the Favourite Dog of a Politician
© Hilaire Belloc
Here lies a Dog.- may every Dog that dies
Lie in security - as this Dog lies.
Event
© Sylvia Plath
How the elements solidify! --
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie
England And Her Colonies
© William Watson
SHE stands, a thousand-wintered tree,
By countless morns impearled;
Erat Hora
© Ezra Pound
Thank you, whatever comes.' And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Ecrit en 1827
© Victor Marie Hugo
Je suis triste quand je vois l'homme.
Le vrai décroît dans les esprits.
L'ombre qui jadis noya Rome
Commence à submerger Paris.
Euryalus
© Edith Wharton
UPWARD we went by fields of asphodel,
Leaving Ortygia's moat-bound walls below;
Edgehill Fight
© Rudyard Kipling
Naked and grey the Cotswolds stand
Beneath the summer sun,
And the stubble fields on either hand
Where Sour and Avon run.
There is no change in the patient land
That has bred us every one.
"Every church sings its own soft part"
© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
Every church sings its own soft part
In the polyphony of a girl's choir,
And in the stone arches of the Assumption
I make out high, arched brows.
Elegy On An Australian Schoolboy
© Zora Bernice May Cross
I would not curse your England, wise as slow,
Just as unjust in deed.
English Eclogues II - The Grandmother's Tale
© Robert Southey
JANE.
Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us
One of her stories.
Elegiac Feelings American
© Gregory Corso
Aye, what happened to you, dear friend, compassionate friend,
is what is happening to everyone and thing of
planet the clamorous sadly desperate planet now
one voice less. . . expendable as the wind. . . gone,
and who'll now blow away the awful miasma of
sick, sick and dying earthflesh-soul America
Elegy, Written In The Year 1758
© James Beattie
Still, shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life's deceitful dream?
On clouds, where Fancy's beam amusive plays,
Shall heedless Hope the towering fabric raise?
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XLIV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
We came at last, alas! I see it yet,
With its open windows on the upper floor,
To a certain house still stirring, with lights set,
And just a chink left open of the door.
Elegy XIX. - Written in Spring, 1743
© William Shenstone
Again the labouring hind inverts the soil;
Again the merchant ploughs the tumid wave;
Another spring renews the soldier's toil,
And finds me vacant in the rural cave.
Evening: Barents Sea
© Benjamin Jonson
Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead
(bifurcated banners at a tourney)
light alchemizes the brass on the bridge
into sallow gold
now the short northern
autumn day closes quickly
