All Poems

/ page 562 of 3210 /

Order by :

1
. . .
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
. . .
3210

The Mourner

© Adelaide Crapsey

I have no heart for noon-tide and the sun,

But I will take me where more tender night

Living by the River

© Wang Wei

Back again to this place of refuge.

No more entering the city.

Shelley's Centenary

© William Watson

Within a narrow span of time,
Three princes of the realm of rhyme,
At height of youth or manhood's prime,
From earth took wing,
To join the fellowship sublime
Who, dead, yet sing.

The Old Cruiser

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.

A Wounded Deer

© Emily Dickinson

A Wounded Deer leaps highest
I've heard the Hunter tell
'Tis but the Ecstasy of death
And then the Brake is still!

A Death-Scene

© Emily Jane Brontë

"O day! he cannot die
When thou so fair art shining!
O Sun, in such a glorious sky,
So tranquilly declining;

Subway by Barry Goldensohn: American Life in Poetry #125 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

The American poet, Ezra Pound, once described the faces of people in a rail station as petals on a wet black bough. That was roughly seventy-five years ago. Here Barry Goldenson of New York offers a look at a contemporary subway station. Not petals, but people all the same.

Growth

© Ernest Christopher Dowson

I watched the glory of her childhood change,
Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew,
(Loved long ago in lily-time),
Become a maid, mysterious and strange,
With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew
Of old, in the olden time!

Twenty-Four Hokku On A Modern Theme

© Amy Lowell

Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.

Indian Summer

© Archibald Lampman

The old grey year is near his term in sooth,

And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm

The Kalevala - Rune XXX

© Elias Lönnrot

THE FROST-FIEND.

The Doubtful To-Morrow

Whenever I walk through God's Acres of Dead
I wonder how often the mute voices said:
"I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow
Or rise to a sacrifice splendid--to-morrow."

Nonpareil

Let others from the Town retire,
And in the fields seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.

Pictures From Appledore

I

A heap of bare and splintery crags

Antique

Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead
crowned with flowerets
and with laurel, restlessly roll
those precious balls, your eyes.

George Rolleston

Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid
Over whose couch the saving God did stand-
"She is not dead but sleepeth," said,
And took her by the hand!