All Poems

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Barn Owl

© Gwen Harwood

Daybreak: the household slept.
I rose, blessed by the sun.
A horny fiend, I crept
out with my father's gun.
Let him dream of a child
obedient, angel-mind-

The House Of Dust: Complete (Long)

. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.

To Miss Mitford: Authoress of "Our Village"

© Charles Kingsley

The single eye, the daughter of the light;

Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade

The Carver

© Conrad Aiken

See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,

The Witness Spirit

© Sri Aurobindo

I dwell in the spirit's calm nothing can move
And watch the actions of Thy vast world-force,
Its mighty wings that through infinity move
And the Time-gallopings of the deathless Horse.

Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations

© Conrad Aiken

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

The Deserted Palace

© Robert Laurence Binyon

``My feet are dead, the cold rain beats my face!''
``Courage, sweet love, this tempest is our friend!''
``Yet oh, shall we not rest a little space?
This city sleeps; some corner may defend

Senlin: His Dark Origins

© Conrad Aiken

He lights his pipe with a pointed flame.
'Yet, there were many autumns before I came,
And many springs. And more will come, long after
There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter.

A Ballad Of Santa Claus

© Henry Van Dyke

For the St. Nicholas Society of New York

Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira,

Senlin: His Cloudy Destiny

© Conrad Aiken

Yet, we would say, this is no shore at all,
But a small bright room with lamplight on the wall;
And the familiar chair
Where Senlin sat, with lamplight on his hair.

The Birds by Linda Pastan: American Life in Poetry #86 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

Linda Pastan, who lives in Maryland, is a master of the kind of water-clear writing that enables us to see into the depths. This is a poem about migrating birds, but also about how it feels to witness the passing of another year.

Nocturne Of Remembered Spring

© Conrad Aiken

I. Moonlight silvers the tops of trees,
Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall
And through the evening fall,
Clearly, as if through enchanted seas,

The Last Blossom

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

THOUGH young no more, we still would dream
Of beauty's dear deluding wiles;
The leagues of life to graybeards seem
Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.

Music I Heard

© Conrad Aiken

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Sonnet. "I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face"

I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face,

Which thrusts itself between the dark and me,

Improvisations: Light And Snow

© Conrad Aiken

How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.

Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude II.

Well pleased all listened to the tale,

That drew, the Student said, its pith

Hatteras Calling

© Conrad Aiken

Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,