Age poems
/ page 131 of 145 /
Dead Boy
© John Crowe Ransom
The little cousin is dead, by foul subtraction,
A green bough from Virginia's aged tree,
And none of the county kin like the transaction,
Nor some of the world of outer dark, like me.
The Gardener LXVIII: None Lives For Ever, Brother
© Rabindranath Tagore
None lives for ever, brother, and
nothing lasts for long. Keep that in
mind and rejoice.
Our life is not the one old burden,
The Beginning
© Rabindranath Tagore
"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked
its mother.
She answered, half crying, half laughing, and clasping the
baby to her breast-
Stream Of Life
© Rabindranath Tagore
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass
and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
Maya
© Rabindranath Tagore
That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,
thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance
---such is thy Maya.
Lover's Gifts XXXIX: There Is a Looker-On
© Rabindranath Tagore
There is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes. I seems he has seen
things in ages and worlds beyond memory's shore, and those
forgotten sights glisten on the grass and shiver on the leaves. He
has seen under new veils the face of the one beloved, in twilight
Little Flute
© Rabindranath Tagore
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Innermost One
© Rabindranath Tagore
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes
and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart
in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
Endless Time
© Rabindranath Tagore
We have no time to lose,
and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.
We Are Going
© Oodgeroo Noonuccal
They came in to the little town
A semi-naked band subdued and silent
All that remained of their tribe.
They came here to the place of their old bora ground
Mother's Day Proclamation
© Julia Ward Howe
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
To Thos. Floyd
© Robert Seymour Bridges
How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd
Left the old home in need of livelier play
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day,
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd?
The Growth of Love
© Robert Seymour Bridges
So in despite of sorrow lately learn'd
I still hold true to truth since thou art true,
Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'd
Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue
To my life's need more splendid and unearn'd
Than hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.
Hair
© Liam Wilkinson
Now that my hair has grown long
like in those last photographs of John Lennon,sitting on that couch in those jeans, suddenly
assuming the role of middle aged man,bereft of his famous round spectacles,
possibly the coolest forty year old in the world,I will sit and drink tea, perhaps dunk
Return To The Esplanade
© Liam Wilkinson
Here is the Red Lea Hotel, the Royal,
the house we said wed buy with the writers turret,
the memorial benches, parked in remembrance.
Psalm 83
© John Milton
Be not thou silent now at length
O God hold not thy peace,
Sit not thou still O God of strength
We cry and do not cease.
Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
© John Milton
IT was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav'n-born-childe,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
Paradise Regained: The Second Book
© John Milton
Meanwhile the new-baptized, who yet remained
At Jordan with the Baptist, and had seen
Him whom they heard so late expressly called
Jesus Messiah, Son of God, declared,
The Hymn
© John Milton
IIt was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav'n-born-childe,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
Paradise Lost: Book 07
© John Milton
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
