Great poems

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Davis Matlock

© Edgar Lee Masters

Suppose it is nothing but the hive:

That there are drones and workers

Carl Hamblin

© Edgar Lee Masters

The press of the Spoon River Clarion was wrecked,

And I was tarred and feathered,

Once I was sailing for fun (Simple Verses XII)

© José Martí

Once I was sailing for fun
On a lake of great allure,
Like gold the sun shone so pure,
And my soul more than the sun.

Song of the Silent Land

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(Lied: Ins Stille Land)

BY JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS-SEEWIS

Resignation

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THERE is no flock however watched and tended
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside howsoe'er defended
But has one vacant chair!

What the Sexton Said

© Vachel Lindsay

Your dust will be upon the wind
Within some certain years,
Though you be sealed in lead to-day
Amid the country's tears.

At Mass

© Vachel Lindsay

No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.

On Frozen Fields

© Galway Kinnell

2
You in whose ultimate madness we live,
You flinging yourself out into the emptiness,
You - like us - great an instant,

Song of the Indian Maid

© John Keats

O SORROW!
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?¡ª
To give maiden blushes
To the white rose bushes? 5
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

"Well," said Crow, "What first?"
God, exhausted with Creation, snored.
"Which way?" said Crow, "Which way first?"
God's shoulder was the mountain on which Crow sat.
"Come," said Crow, "Let's discuss the situation."
God lay, agape, a great carcass.

Crow and Mama

© Ted Hughes

When Crow cried his mother's ear

Scorched to a stump.

I Hardly Remember

© Robert Graves

I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you
floats in some remote current of my blood.
I carry you in my depths, trapped in the sludge
like one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.

In The Back of the Real

© Allen Ginsberg

railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.

Death and Fame

When I die

I don't care what happens to my body

The Murmur Of The Forest

On the pond bright sparks are falling,
Wavelets in the sunlight glisten ;
Gazing on the woods with rapture ,
Do I let my spirit capture
Drowsiness, and lie and listen...
Quails are calling.

Of Politics and Art

© Norman Dubie

Today I listened to a woman say
That Melville might
Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked, "And why not?"
The first responded, "Because there are
No women in his one novel."