All Poems

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Easter Morning

© Amy Clampitt

a stone at dawn
cold water in the basin
these walls' rough plaster
imageless

Beach Glass

© Amy Clampitt

While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time

A Silence

© Amy Clampitt

behind the mask
the milkfat shivering
sinew isinglass
uncrumpling transient
greed to reinvest

A Hermit Thrush

© Amy Clampitt

Nothing's certain. Crossing, on this longest day,
the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling up
the scree-slope of what at high tide
will be again an island,

A Hedge Of Rubber Trees

© Amy Clampitt

The West Village by then was changing; before long
the rundown brownstones at its farthest edge
would have slipped into trendier hands. She lived,
impervious to trends, behind a potted hedge of

Mayakovsky In New York: A Found Poem

© Annie Dillard

For many hours the train flies along the banks
of the Hudson about two feet from the water. At the stops,
passengers run out, buy up bunches of celery,
and run back in, chewing the stalks as they go.

To His Book

© Robert Herrick

Make haste away, and let one be
A friendly patron unto thee;
Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie
Torn for the use of pastery;

Pardons

© Robert Herrick

Those ends in war the best contentment bring,
Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.

To Mistress Katharine Bradshaw, The Lovely, That Crowned Him With Laurel

© Robert Herrick

My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.

Mirth

© Robert Herrick

True mirth resides not in the smiling skin;
The sweetest solace is to act no sin.

The Present Time Best Pleaseth

© Robert Herrick

Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!

Upon A Painted Gentlewoman

© Robert Herrick

Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

To Groves

© Robert Herrick

Ye silent shades, whose each tree here
Some relique of a saint doth wear;
Who for some sweet-heart's sake, did prove
The fire and martyrdom of Love:--

Time was upon

Wrinkles no more are, or no less,
Than beauty turn'd to sourness.

When I thy parts run o'er, I can't espy
In any one, the least indecency;
But every line and limb diffused thence
A fair and unfamiliar excellence;
So that the more I look, the more I prove
There's still more cause why I the more should love.

To Sir Clipsby Crew

Since to the country first I came,
I have lost my former flame;
And, methinks, I not inherit,
As I did, my ravish'd spirit.

The Wassail

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.

To His Kinswoman, Mistress Susanna Herrick

When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
But here awhile, to languish and decay;
Like to these garden glories, which here be
The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:
With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,
Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!

To His Muse

Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam?
Far safer 'twere to stay at home;
Where thou mayst sit, and piping, please
The poor and private cottages.

To Bacchus: A Canticle

Whither dost thou hurry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,--
Here and there a fresh Love is;