Weather poems
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John Winter
© Robert Laurence Binyon
What ails John Winter, that so oft
Silent he sits apart?
The neighbours cast their looks on him;
But deep he hides his heart.
The Nightingale In The Study
© James Russell Lowell
'Come forth!' my catbird calls to me,
'And hear me sing a cavatina
That, in this old familiar tree,
Shall hang a garden of Alcina.
We Lying By Seasand
© Dylan Thomas
We lying by seasand, watching yellow
And the grave sea, mock who deride
The Blackbird
© William Ernest Henley
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
Jaspers Song
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
WHO goes down through the slim green sallows,
Soon, so soon ?
Lament
© Sylvia Plath
The sting of bees took away my father
who walked in a swarming shroud of wings
and scorned the tick of the falling weather.
To The Balliol Men Still In Africa
© Hilaire Belloc
Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,
Whatever I had she gave me again;
And the best of Balliol loved and led me,
God be with you, Balliol men.
The Belated Swallow
© Mary Hannay Foott
Belated swallow, whither flying?
The day is dead, the light is dying,
Hard Weather
© George Meredith
Bursts from a rending East in flaws
The young green leaflet's harrier, sworn
A Small Moment by Cornelius Eady: American Life in Poetry #197 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2
© Ted Kooser
I suspect that one thing some people have against reading poems is that they are so often so serious, so devoid of joy, as if we poets spend all our time brooding about mutability and death and never having any fun. Here Cornelius Eady, who lives and teaches in Indiana, offers us a poem of pure pleasure.
Heine In Paris
© Kenneth Slessor
LATE: a cold smear of sunlight bathes the room;
The gilt lime of winter, a sun grown melancholy old,
Streams in the glass. Outside, ten thousand chimneys fume,
Looping the weather-birds with rings of gold;
Limerick: There was an old person of Nice
© Edward Lear
There was an old person of Nice,
Whose associates were usually Geese.
They walked out together,
in all sorts of weather.
That affable person of Nice!
In Praise Of Contentment
© Eugene Field
I hate the common, vulgar herd!
Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em!
But pretty girls and nice young men
Observe a proper silence when
I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.
The Impetuous Breeze And The Diplomatic Sun
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
A Boston man an ulster had,
An ulster with a cape that fluttered:
It smacked his face, and made him mad,
And polyglot remarks he uttered:
"I bought it at a bargain," said he,
"I'm tired of the thing already."
