All Poems

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3210

Songs From Prince Lucifer II - Mother-Song

The Weakling

© Arthur Henry Adams

I AM a weakling. God, who made

The still, strong man, made also me.

Stupid Pencil Maker

© Sheldon Allan Silverstein

Some dummy built this pencil wrong,
The eraser's down here where the point belongs,
And the point's at the top - so it's no good to me,
It's amazing how stupid some people can be.

After The Flood

© Arthur Rimbaud

As soon as the idea of the Deluge had subsided,
A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flowerbells,
and said a prayer to the rainbow,
through the spider's web.

The Rushes

© Francis Ledwidge

The rushes nod by the river
As the winds on the loud waves go,
And the things they nod of are many,
For it's many the secret they know.

On a Street

© Henry Kendall

I dread that street - its haggard face

I have not seen for eight long years;

After Rain

© Archibald Lampman

For three whole days across the sky,

In sullen packs that loomed and broke,

Again the Clash is East

© Leon Gellert

Again the clash is East, the Gates are barred.
The rolling echoes of of Troy arise
With trebled sound: its weary threshold scarred
With scattered dead once more, and wild with cries.

Who Is This?

© Rabindranath Tagore

I came out alone on my way to my tryst.

But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?

Requiescat

© Edwin Arlington Robinson

We never knew the Sorrow or the pain
Within him, for he seemed as one asleep
Until he faced us with a dying leap,
And with a blast of paramount, profane,

AUTUMN
A GOOD stay-at-home season is Autumn: then there's
work to be joined in by all:
Though the fawns, where the brackens make covert, may range away undeterred,
The stags that were lone upon hillocks now give heed to the call,
To the bellowing call of the hinds, and they draw back to the herd.

Kinship

© Madison Julius Cawein

I.

There is no flower of wood or lea,

On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing "The Stranger" Played At Inverary

© John Keats

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Gods might know my own particular taste:

The Dreamer on the Sea-shore

What are the dreams of him who may sleep

Where the solemn voice of the troubled deep

To A Billy

OLD BILLYbattered, brown and black

With many days of camping,

Amy Wentworth

Her fingers shame the ivory keys
They dance so light along;
The bloom upon her parted lips
Is sweeter than the song.

Seaward: To

HOW long it seems since that mild April night,
When, leaning from the window, you and I
Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight,
The loons unearthly cry!