Art poems

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Portrait of the Artist

© Dorothy Parker

Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.

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The Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam Of Naishapur

© Edward Fitzgerald

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

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A Letter from Artemesia in the Town to Chloe in the Country

© John Wilmot

Chloe,In verse by your command I write.
Shortly you'll bid me ride astride, and fight:
These talents better with our sex agree
Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry.

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Satyr

© John Wilmot

Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)
A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas'd to weare,

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A Satyre Against Mankind

© John Wilmot

Thus sir, you see what human nature craves,
Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves;
The difference lies, as far as I can see.
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the subject matter of debate
Is only, who's a knave of the first rate

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Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn

© Les Murray

That slim creek out of the sky
the dried-blood western gum tree
is all stir in its high reaches:

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The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever

© Les Murray

To go home and wear shorts forever
in the enormous paddocks, in that warm climate,
adding a sweater when winter soaks the grass,

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Epistle to Neruda

© Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Superb,
Like a seasoned lion,
Neruda buys bread in the shop.
He asks for it to be wrapped in paper

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Memento

© Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Like a reminder of this life
of trams, sun, sparrows,
and the flighty uncontrolledness
of streams leaping like thermometers,

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Starlings in Winter

© Mary Oliver

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

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A Dream of Trees

© Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.

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Sand Dabs, Five

© Mary Oliver

You can have the other words-chance, luck, coincidence,
serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but
I'll take it.

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The Dance Of Death

© Charles Baudelaire

CARRYING bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
And the extravagant courtesan's thin face.

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The Venal Muse

© Charles Baudelaire

You should, to earn your bread today
Like a choir boy with a censer to wave,
Sings hymns with feeling but without belief.

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Beauty

© Charles Baudelaire

I AM as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.

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Une Charogne

© Charles Baudelaire

Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux :
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infame
Sur un lit semé de cailloux,

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Thomas Bailey Aldrich

© Henry Van Dyke

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
Have brought another Festa round to you,
You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.

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Camma

© Oscar Wilde

And yet - methinks I'd rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken, - come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!

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The Burden Of Itys

© Oscar Wilde

This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves, - God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

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Athanasia

© Oscar Wilde

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.