All Poems
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Happiness
© Louise Gluck
A man and a woman lie on a white bed.
It is morning. I think
Soon they will waken.
On the bedside table is a vase
The Marriage Of Edward Herbert Esquire, And Mrs. Elizabeth Herbert
© Anne Kingsmill Finch
CUPID one day ask'd his Mother,
When she meant that he shou'd Wed?
You're too Young, my Boy, she said:
Nor has Nature made another
Fit to match with Cupid's Bed.
Horse
© Louise Gluck
I watch you when you are alone,
When you ride into the field behind the dairy,
Your hands buried in the mare's
Dark mane.
The Wish
© Louise Gluck
The time I lied to you
about the butterfly. I always wondered
what you wished for.
Science
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Alone I climb the steep ascending path
Which leads to knowledge. In the babbling throngs
A Fantasy
© Louise Gluck
I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
The Wild Iris
© Louise Gluck
Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.
Before The Tomb
© Madison Julius Cawein
The way went under cedared gloom
To moonlight, like a cactus bloom,
Before the entrance of her tomb.
The Familie
© George Herbert
What doth this noise of thoughts within my heart,
As if they had a part?
What do these loud complaints and pulling fears,
As if there were no rule or eares?
Snow
© Louise Gluck
Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.
The Chameleon
© Matthew Prior
But if at first he minds his hits,
And drinks Champaigne among the wits,
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses,
Repeats yon verse wrote on glasses:
Is in the chair, prescribes the law,
And lies with those he never saw.
Lullaby
© Louise Gluck
My mother's an expert in one thing:
sending people she loves into the other world.
The little ones, the babies--these
she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say
what she did for my father;
whatever it was, I'm sure it was right.
Channing
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Not vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!
Saints
© Louise Gluck
In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.
Summer
© Louise Gluck
But we were lost in a way, didn't you feel that?
The bed was like a raft; I felt us drifting
far from our natures, toward a place where we'd discover nothing.
First the sun, then the moon, in fragments,
stone through the willow.
Things anyone could see.
Love Poem
© Louise Gluck
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
