Great poems

/ page 15 of 549 /

Order by :

1
. . .
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
. . .
549

The Passionate Suburbanite To His Love

© Guiterman Arthur

Commute with me, my Love, and be merry; How vain in the City to dwellWhen apple-trees blow in Dobbs' Ferry And lilacs adorn New Rochelle!White Plains is the Garden of Allah And Pelham's the Pearl of the Sea;There's bliss in the name of Valhalla -- Oh, fly to the Suburbs with me!

Then won't you commute on my family ticket?To Westchester County we'll flee

The Great Tyrannosaurus

© Guiterman Arthur

The Great Tyrannosaurus Lived centuries ago;Through marshes wet and porous He rambled to and fro.

Going to Dover

© Whitney Adeline Dutton Train

"Leg over leg As the dog went to Dover;When he came to a stile, Jump he went over."

On a Wife

© Grose Francis

My dame and I, full twenty years,Liv'd man and wife together;I could no longer keep her here,She's gone the Lord knows whither

Into Battle

© Grenfell Julian

The naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting treesLeans to the sun's gaze glorying,And quivers in the sunny breeze;And life is Colour and Warmth and Light,And a striving evermore for these;And he is dead who will not fight,And who dies fighting has increase

Whaler

© Greene Richard

Great-grandfather, whaler out of Nantucket,the harder sort who threw the harpoon, drew warm blood,made huge death on the open sea.

Over the Border

© Greene Richard

II. Austin

The Flying Fish

© Gray John Henry

Magnae Deus potentiaequi fertili natos aquapartim relinquis gurgitipartim levas in aera.

The Kilkenny Cats

© Graves Alfred Perceval

In the dacent ould days Before stockings or staysWere invented, or breeches, top-boots and top-hats, You'd search the whole sphere From Cape Horn to Cape ClearAnd never come near to the likes of our Cats Och, tunder! och, tunder! You'd wink wid the wonderTo see them keep under the mice and the rats; And go wild for half shares In the phisants and haresThey pull'd up the backstairs to provision our PatsOch! the Cats of Kilkenny, Kilkenny's wild Cats!

But the shame and the sin Of the Game Laws came in,Wid the gun and the gin of the landlord canats; And the whole box and dice Of the rats and the miceMade off in a trice from our famishing Cats

What I Know (Making Free with Villon's Smalltalk)

© Gotlieb Phyllis

I know how to ring down a chime of dimesin a dime slot if you can find me a dime slot,I know how to push the button at a stoplightso the red flicks green before you blink, andI know how to do a cat's cradle behind my back;I know how to love a stem and a leafso the flower reaches up to kiss mebut other than that, I don't know anything

and I am the greatest of puzzle solvers:give me two letters of a 14-letter word you got it,and words, I know every word spoken in jestand every lying word because everylie is as weak as a cobweb, becauseeveryone who believes a lie is a liarto the own self, oh sure, I know all thatbut other than that I'm an ignoramus

Thirty-Six Ways of Looking at Toronto Ontario

© Gotlieb Phyllis

##.see my house, its angled street,east, north, west, south,southeast, northwest, there areno parking placeshere

Ordinary, Moving

© Gotlieb Phyllis

is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out

the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song

this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever

Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba

Latitude

© Gotlieb Phyllis

Mercator a mapmaker a shaperof great currents ofcontinents on paper

A Discourse

the skeleton's the most articu-late thing there is exceptabout Who made him

The Deserted Village, A Poem

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

The Rising Village

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

To the Young Wife

Are you content, you pretty three-years' wife? Are you content and satisfied to live On what your loving husband loves to give, And give to him your life?