Poems begining by A
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A Wraith Of Summertime
© James Whitcomb Riley
In its color, shade and shine,
'T was a summer warm as wine,
With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine,
And a fragrance and a taste
Of ripe roses gone to waste,
And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced.
A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day
© John Donne
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
Amoretti XXX: My Love is like to ice, and I to fire
© Edmund Spenser
My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Above The Gaspereau
© Bliss William Carman
How still through the sweet summer sun, through the soft summer rain,
They have stood there awaiting the summons should bid them attain
The freedom of knowledge, the last touch of truth to explain
The great golden gist of their brooding, the marvellous train
Of thought they have followed so far, been so strong to sustain,
The white gospel of sun and the long revelations of rain!
A Salutation
© Louise Imogen Guiney
High-hearted Surrey! I do love your ways,
Venturous, frank, romantic, vehement,
A Letter of Recommendation
© John Wesley
On summer nights I sleep naked
in Jerusalem. My bed
stands on the brink of a deep valley
without rolling down into it.
And Still It Comes
© Thomas Lux
like a downhill brakes-burned freight train
full of pig iron ingots, full of lead
"As Love and I, late harbour'd in one inn"
© Michael Drayton
As Love and I, late harbourd in one inn,
With proverbs thus each other entertain:
An Offering for Patricia
© Anthony Evan Hecht
The work has been going forward with the greatest difficulty, chiefly because I cannot concentrate. I have no feeling about whether what I am writing is good or bad, and the whole business is totally without excitement and pleasure for me. And I am sure I know the reason. It’s that I can’t stand leaving unresolved my situation with Pat. I hear from her fairly frequently, asking when I plan to come back, and she knows that I am supposed to appear at the poetry reading in the middle of January. It is not mainly loneliness I feel, though I feel it; but I have been lonely before. It is quite frankly the feeling that nothing is really settled between us, and that in the mean time I worry about how things are going to work out. This has made my work more difficult than it has ever been before.
A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body
© Andrew Marvell
SOUL
O who shall, from this dungeon, raise
An Essay on Criticism: Part 3
© Alexander Pope
Learn then what morals critics ought to show,
For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:
That not alone what to your sense is due,
All may allow; but seek your friendship too.
A Color of the Sky
© Tony Hoagland
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.
America In 1804
© Edgar Lee Masters
(America Conquers Europe.)
Foul shapes that hate the day, again grown bold,
Late driven hence, infested fane and court.
The laurels of our victory were amort.
An Epitaph on S.P.
© Benjamin Jonson
A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel
Weep with me, all you that read
A Ghost Of Yesterday
© Madison Julius Cawein
THERE is a house beside a way,
Where dwells a ghost of Yesterday:
The old face of a beauty, faded,
Looks from its garden: and the shaded
Another Insane Devotion
© Gerald Stern
This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped
