Poems begining by C
/ page 26 of 99 /
Childhood
© Arthur Rimbaud
I.
That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court,
nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables;
his domain, insolent azure and verdure,
runs over beaches called by the shipless waves,
names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt.
Christmas Folk-Song
© Duncan Campbell Scott
Those who die on Christmas Day
(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)
Callaghan's Hotel
© Henry Lawson
There are memories of old days that were red instead of blue;
In the time of Dick the Devil and of other devils too;
But perhaps they went to Heaven and are angels, doing well
They were always open-hearted up at Callaghans Hotel.
Classic Dancing in Cactus Center
© Arthur Chapman
Down here in Cactus Center we have lived a life apart;
We've been far, we're frank in sayin', from the headquarters of art...
Ce que c'est que la mort
© Victor Marie Hugo
Ne dites pas : mourir ; dites : naître. Croyez.
On voit ce que je vois et ce que vous voyez ;
On est l'homme mauvais que je suis, que vous êtes ;
On se rue aux plaisirs, aux tourbillons, aux fêtes ;
Castles in the Air
© Thomas Love Peacock
My thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:
For in the past alone I build
My castles in the air.
Colloque Sentimental
© Paul Verlaine
In the deserted park, silent and vast,
Erewhile two shadowy glimmering figures passed.
Counterparts
© Octavio Paz
In my body you search the mountain
for the sun buried in its forest.
In your body I search for the boat
adrift in the middle of the night.
Crowds
© Charles Baudelaire
It is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species, on whom, in his cradle, a fairy has bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming.
Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.
Christmas Hymn
© Edith Nesbit
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
Cyder: Book I
© John Arthur Phillips
What Soil the Apple loves, what Care is due
To Orchats, timeliest when to press the Fruits,
Thy Gift, Pomona, in Miltonian Verse
Adventrous I presume to sing; of Verse
Nor skill'd, nor studious: But my Native Soil
Invites me, and the Theme as yet unsung.
Celebrating The Opulence Of The Lords Of Ts'in
© Confucius
Our ruler to the hunt proceeds;
And black as iron are his steeds
That heed the charioteer's command,
Who holds the six reins in his hand.
His favorites follow to the chase,
Rejoicing in his special grace.
Contrasts
© Madison Julius Cawein
No eve of summer ever can attain
The gladness of that eve of late _July_,
When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain,
Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,
I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,--
While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.
Chomei At Toyama
© Basil Bunting
Swirl sleeping in the waterfall!
On motionless pools scum appearing
disappearing!
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.
© George Gordon Byron
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
Commemorative Of A Naval Victory
© Herman Melville
Sailors there are of the gentlest breed,
Yet strong, like every goodly thing;
Compensation
© Edith Nesbit
LADY, I see you every day--
More than your other lovers do;
I sit beside you at the Play,
And in the Park I ride with you.
