Good poems
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To Sir Henry Wotton [Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls...]
© John Donne
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;For thus, friends absent speak
To Mr. S. B.
© John Donne
O thou which to search out the secret parts Of the India, or rather Paradise Of knowledge, hast with courage and adviceLately launch'd into the vast sea of arts,Disdain not in thy constant travelling To do as other voyagers, and make Some turns into less creeks, and wisely takeFresh water at the Heliconian spring;I sing not, siren-like, to tempt; for I Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry, I, though I brought no fuel, had desire With these articulate blasts to blow the fire
The Perfume
© John Donne
Once, and but once found in thy company,All thy suppos'd escapes are laid on me;And as a thief at bar is question'd thereBy all the men that have been robb'd that year,So am I, (by this traitorous means surpriz'd)By thy hydroptic father catechiz'd
On His Mistress
© John Donne
By our first strange and fatal interview,By all desires which thereof did ensue,By our long starving hopes, by that remorseWhich my words masculine persuasive forceBegot in thee, and by the memoryOf hurts, which spies and rivals threaten'd me,I calmly beg
Love's Progress
© John Donne
Whoever loves, if he do not proposeThe right true end of love, he's one that goesTo sea for nothing but to make him sick
[Image and Dream]
© John Donne
Image of her whom I love, more than she, Whose fair impression in my faithful heart,Makes me her medal, and makes her love me, As kings do coins, to which their stamps impartThe value: go, and take my heart from hence, Which now is grown too great and good for me:Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see
The Comparison
© John Donne
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,As that which from chaf'd musk cat's pores doth trill,As the almighty balm of th' early east,Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast;And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets
The Bracelet
© John Donne
Not that in colour it was like thy hair,For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear;Nor that thy hand is oft embrac'd and kiss'd,For so it had that good which oft I miss'd;Not for that seely old morality,That as those links are tied our love should be;Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost
The Anagram
© John Donne
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for sheHath all things, whereby others beauteous be;For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great;Though they be ivory, yet her teeth be jet;Though they be dim, yet she is light enough;And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is tough;What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair's red,Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead
The Footman: An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Wright
© Dodsley Robert
Dear FRIEND,Since I am now at leisure,And in the Country taking Pleasure,If it be worth your while to hearA silly Footman's Business there,I'll try to tell, in easy Rhyme,How I in London spend my Time
I Want You to See
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
I want you to see the hole in my shirt where yourheart went through like a Colt 45, and openeda dream at the back of the neck
God and the Fifties
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
It was shady deals andConnie Francis on jukeboxjunipers and chevy convertiblesparked outside Dino's restaurant;it was brighter skies, manageableskyscrapers, gang-fights and Kennedy;it was gambling at Atlantic City withthe Four Seasons, it was crabs andJohnny Unitas and Connie Arena whoteased my heart through ten schoolyears, her father practicing race-trackcornet every day driving us nuts onsuch bored summers of tee-shirtswith cigarette packs at the sleeve andBeachboys and weights
America
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
The Tropic of Capricorn someone hadleft on the seat beside me, somewhere betweenUtica and Albany;
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
Cooper's Hill (1642)
© Sir John Denham
Sure we have poets that did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, and therefore I supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
The Life of Man
© William Henry Davies
All from his cradle to his grave,Poor devil, man's a frightened fool;His Mother talks of imps and ghosts,His Master threatens him at school
The Civil Wars between the Two Houses of Lancaster and York
© Samuel Daniel
The swift approach and unexpected speedThe king had made upon this new-rais'd force,In the unconfirmed troops, much fear did breed,Untimely hind'ring their intended course
Forty Below
© Dafoe Christopher
From this valley we hope to be going,When at last we can travel alone,For we're sick of the snow and the dust storms,In Toronto we'll find a new home.
