All Poems

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3210

Running On!

© William Henry Ogilvie

The dusk is down on the river meadows,

The moon is climbing above the fir,

To Amanda - Come, Dear Amanda, Quit The Town

© James Thomson

Come, dear Amanda, quit the town,
And to the rural hamlets fly;
Behold! the wintry storms are gone;
A gentle radiance glads the sky.

The Hospital Window

© James Dickey

I have just come down from my father.
Higher and higher he lies
Above me in a blue light
Shed by a tinted window.
I drop through six white floors
And then step out onto pavement.

TO Mr.T.W.

© John Donne

PREGNANT again with th' old twins, Hope and Fear,
Oft have I asked for thee, both how and where
Thou wert ; and what my hopes of letters were ;

Willie had a purple monkey climbing on a yellow stick,
And when he sucked the paint all off it made him deathly sick;
And in his latest hours he clasped that monkey in his hand,
And bade good-bye to earth and went into a better land.

Off To School

© Edgar Albert Guest

IT doesn't seem a year ago that I was tumbling out of bed,
The icy steps that lead below at 1 a.m., barefoot, to tread,
And puttering round the kitchen stove, while chills ran up and down my form
As I stood there and waited for her bottled dinner to get warm;
Then sampled it to see that it was not too hot or not too cool,
That doesn't seem a year ago, and now she's trudging off to school.

Tam Lin

© Anonymous

O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.

September in Australia

© Henry Kendall

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,

And, behold, for repayment,

Cicadas at the End of Summer by Martin Walls: American Life in Poetry #24 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laur

© Ted Kooser

But all you ever see is the silence.
Husks, glued to the underside of maple leaves.
With their nineteen fifties Bakelite lines they'd do
just as well hanging from the ceiling of a space
museum —

Old Man Hoppergrass

© Stephen Vincent Benet

When I was young, I slept like stone,
When I was young, I grew like tree.
Now I lie, abed, alone,
And I wonder if 'tis me.

The Seed-Shop

© Muriel Stuart

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Second Sight

Rich is the fancy which can double back

All seeming forms, and from cold icicles

Green Pear Tree in September by Freya Manfred : American Life in Poetry #259 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet

© Ted Kooser

Wisconsin writer Freya Manfred is not only a fine poet but the daughter of the late Frederick Manfred, a distinguished novelist of the American west. Here is a lovely snapshot of her father, whom I cherished among my good friends.
Green Pear Tree in September

On a hill overlooking the Rock River