Intelligence poems
/ page 8 of 14 /
Snow-Bound: A Winter Idyl
© John Greenleaf Whittier
To the Memory of the Household It Describes
This Poem is Dedicated by the Author
What My House Would Be Like If It Were A Person
© Denise Levertov
This person would be an animal.
This animal would be large, at least as large
Fifteen Epitaphs I
© Louise Imogen Guiney
I laid the strewings, darling, on thine urn;
I lowered the torch, I poured the cup to Dis.
Now hushaby, my little child, and learn
Long sleep how good it is.
Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence
© Matthew Rohrer
I'm waiting for the Light Beings
to remove my roof.
Our bedroom is lousy with clothes
spelling out greetings if anyone's up there
who can read English.
An Hymn Of Heavenly Beauty
© Edmund Spenser
Rapt with the rage of mine own ravish'd thought,
Through contemplation of those goodly sights,
The Missionary - Canto Second
© William Lisle Bowles
The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,
Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,--
A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,
Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;
And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,
Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:--
The Sorcerer: Act I
© William Schwenck Gilbert
For to-day young Alexis-young Alexis Pointdextre
Is betrothed to Aline-to Aline Sangazure,
And that pride of his sex is-of his sex is to be next her
At the feast on the green-on the green, oh, be sure!
Sonnet XXI
© Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa
Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing.
Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes,
The Child Of The Islands - Summer
© Caroline Norton
I.
FOR Summer followeth with its store of joy;
That, too, can bring thee only new delight;
Its sultry hours can work thee no annoy,
Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto III
© Samuel Butler
What made thee, when they all were gone,
And none but thou and I alone,
To act the Devil, and forbear
To rid me of my hellish fear?
A Broken Prayer
© George MacDonald
I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light;
1 cannot round myself; my purest thought,
Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth,
And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will.
Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward
© John Donne
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
To Mr. Henry Lawes
© Katherine Philips
Nature, which is the vast creation’s soul,
That steady curious agent in the whole,
Dilemma
© Anthony Evan Hecht
“Dark and amusing he is, this handsome gallant,
Of chamois-polished charm,
Athlete and dancer of uncommon talent—
Is there cause for alarm
In his smooth demeanor, the proud tilt of his chin,
This cavaliere servente, this Harlequin?
A Death in the Desert
© Robert Browning
Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept:
It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome,
Was burned, and could not write the chronicle.
“I have been a stranger in a strange land”
© Rita Dove
And there was no voice in her head,
no whispered intelligence lurking
in the leaves—just an ache that grew
until she knew she'd already lost everything
except desire, the red heft of it
warming her outstretched palm.
