Morning poems

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Lines written under the conviction that it is not wise to read Mathematics in November after one’s fire is out

© James Clerk Maxwell

In the sad November time,When the leaf has left the lime,And the Cam, with sludge and slime, Plasters his ugly channel,While, with sober step and slow,Round about the marshes low,Stiffening students stumping go Shivering through their flannel

Reynard the Fox; or, The Ghost Heath Run

© John Masefield

PART I

Cape Horn Gospel -- I

© John Masefield

"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen,"And Bill, as was a seaman, died,So we lashed him in an old tarpaulinAnd tumbled him across the side;And the fun of it was that all his gear wasDivided up among the crewBefore that blushing human error,Our crawling little captain, knew

The Wind Our Enemy

© Marriott Anne

Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.

Romeo and Juliet

© Marquis Donald Robert Perry

Pop Montague's old brain was wried Through all its convolutionsWith constant thoughts of Homicide And kindred institutions.

The Songs of Selma

© James Macpherson

ARGUMENTAddress to the evening star

John-John

© MacDonagh Thomas

I dreamt last night of you, John-John, And thought you called to me;And when I woke this morning, John, Yourself I hoped to see;But I was all alone, John-John, Though still I heard your call:I put my boots and bonnet on, And took my Sunday shawl,And went, full sure to find you, John, To Nenagh fair

Epitaph on a Jacobite

© Macaulay Thomas Babington

To my true king I offer'd free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain

Portable Demons

© Leggat Alexandra

I found the ghost of Dorothy Parkerin an old movie house in Times SquareI approached her with condolencesand slowly coerced her out of there

Man and Bat

© David Herbert Lawrence

When I went into my room, at mid-morning,Say ten o'clock ...My room, a crash-box over that great stone rattleThe Via de' Bardi ....

St. Andrews Bay

© Andrew Lang

Les Roses de Sâdi

© Andrew Lang

This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.

Morning on the Lièvre

© Archibald Lampman

Far above us where a jayScreams his matins to the day,Capped with gold and amethyst,Like a vapor from the forgeOf a giant somewhere hid,Out of hearing of the clangOf his hammer, skirts of mistSlowly up the woody gorgeLift and hang

Epigrams: To Lucy, Countess of Bedford, with John Donne's Satires

© Benjamin Jonson

Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who areLife of the Muses' day, their morning star!If works, not th' author's, their own grace should look,Whose poems would not wish to be your book?But these, desir'd by you, the maker's endsCrown with their own

The Vanity of Human Wishes

Let observation with extensive view,

London: A Poem, in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal

Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,

Flint and Feather

Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.

Hanmer Woods

© Hyde Robin

Autumn will walk there, with a breath of stardust,With the burnt brown fronds of bracken in her hair;Autumn will come with the frost on briar berries,And clean blue mornings, and smoke-hazed air.