All Poems
/ page 650 of 3210 /
Welcome Home
© Thomas Hardy
To my native place
Bent upon returning,
Bosom all day burning
To be where my race
Well were known, 'twas much with me
There to dwell in amity.
Discovered by Shirley Buettner: American Life in Poetry #19 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
At the beginning of the famous novel, "Remembrance of Things Past," the mere taste of a biscuit started Marcel Proust on a seven-volume remembrance. Here a bulldozer turns up an old doorknob, and look what happens in Shirley Buettner's imagination.
Discovered
While clearing the west
quarter for more cropland,
the Cat quarried
a porcelain doorknob
Los Dados Eternos
© Cesar Vallejo
Para Manuel Gonzales Prada, esta
emoción bravía y selecta, una de las
que, con más entusiasmo, me ha aplau-
dido el gran maestro.
Murió Al Amanecer
© Federico Garcia Lorca
Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo árbol,
con una sola sombra
y un solo pájaro.
The Stwonen Bwoy Upon The Pillar
© William Barnes
Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls,
An' moss a-clingèn to the walls,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar
© Robert Burns
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Rimas LXVI
© Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
?De donde vengo?... El mas horrible y aspero
De los senderos busca;
The Road To Anywhere
© Bert Leston Taylor
Across the places deep and dim,
And places brown and bare,
It reaches to the planet s rim
The Road to Anywhere.
One Woman's Memory
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Here is a lock of his soft, dark hair,
And here are the letters he wrote to me.
A Zacinto
© Ugo Foscolo
Some will not return: I too
offend the powers that be, am banned
from home. Oh maternal land,
my words are all I have to send to you
The Loving Ballad Of Lord Bateman
© Andrew Lang
Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
A noble lord of high degree;
He shipped himself all aboard of a ship,
Some foreign country for to see.
The Cynic Of The Woods
© Arthur Patchett Martin
Come I from busy haunts of men,
With nature to commune,
Mesalliance
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
I am troubled to-night with a curious pain;
It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain,
Nor yet of a heart that is breaking:
But down still deeper, and out of sight
