Poems begining by C
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Convention
© Eleanor Agnes Lee
The snow is lying very deep.
My house is sheltered from the blast.
I hear each muffled step outside,
I hear each voice go past.
Cliff Swallows-Missouri Breaks by Debra Nystrom: American Life in Poetry #29 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet L
© Ted Kooser
Many of you have seen flocks of birds or schools of minnows acting as if they were guided by a common intelligence, turning together, stopping together. Here is a poem by Debra Nystrom that beautifully describes a flight of swallows returning to their nests, acting as if they were of one mind. Notice how she extends the description to comment on the way human behavior differs from that of the birds.
Cliff Swallows
-Missouri Breaks
Couplet 1
© Amir Khusro
Farsi Couplet:
Naala-e zanjeer-e Majnun arghanoon-e aashiqanast
Zauq-e aan andaza-e gosh-e ulul-albaab neest
Comfort
© Walter de la Mare
As I mused by the hearthside,
Puss said to me;
"there burns the fire , man,
and here sit we.
Concepcion De Arguello
© Francis Bret Harte
Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and
quaint,
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,--
Cornered
© Edgar Albert Guest
I KNEW it was comin', I'd watched fer a year
Without sayin' a word to a soul excep' Ma
Central Park At Dusk
© Sara Teasdale
Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream,
While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.
Carissima Mea
© Madison Julius Cawein
I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
_Therefore it is I sing her praise._
City Contrasts
© Anonymous
A barefooted child on the crossing,
Sweeping the mud away,
A lady in silks and diamonds,
Proud of the vain display;
Chanson d'exil
© François Coppée
Triste exilé, qu'il te souvienne
Combien l'avenir était beau,
Quand sa main tremblait dans la tienne
Comme un oiseau,
Cymru
© George Essex Evans
Dim in the mist of ages, seeking a resting-place,
Broke on the shores of Britain the wave of an Aryan race.
Camelus Saltat
© George Meredith
What say you, critic, now you have become
An author and maternal?--in this trap
Cantus peregrinorum.
© Thomas Hoccleve
Honowred be thu, blissed lord on hye, That of the blisful maydë were I-bore,That with thi deth us boughtist myght[i]ly:Thin ownë flesch and blood, þou gaue us fore,And for us suffred peynës wonder sore, Bothe foot and hand [i]nayled to the rode,And bledest alle thin veray hert[es] bloode!
Honowred be thu, fadir souereigne, That vowchedsaff suche raunsom [us] to sendeThin ownë lovëd sone to suffre peyne,Oure mysease & myschief [for] to amende!Thu holigost, þat art withowt[en] ende, With fadier & sone, one god in trinite,ffor euere honured be thi maieste!
Children's Playground In The City
© Edith Nesbit
THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
Change
© Boris Pasternak
I used to glorify the poor,
Not simply lofty views expressing:
Their lives alone, I felt, were true,
Devoid of pomp and window-dressing.
