Poems begining by C
/ page 39 of 99 /
Choosing A Profession
© Charles Lamb
A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
To be in European learning taught,
Counting The Mad
© Donald Justice
This one was put in a jacket,
This one was sent home,
This one was given bread and meat
But would eat none,
And this one cried No No No No
All day long.
Critics Nightwatch
© Gwen Harwood
Once more he tried, before he slept,
to rule his ranks of words. They broke
from his planned choir, lolled, slouched and kept
their tone, their pitch, their meaning crude;
huddled in cliches; when pursued
turned with mock elegance to croak
Captain Von Esson of the Sebastopol
© Henry Lawson
Till each was sunk that the Russians leftwhile the buildings reeled with the shock,
Save the last of the Russian ships of warthe Sebastopolin dock.
And this is the reasontold in a linewhy there is a tale to tell:
The Sebastopol had a man for boss, and a crew that knew it well.
Caliban Upon Rudiments Or Autoschediastic Theology In A Hole
© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Rudiments, Rudiments, and Rudiments!
'Thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues.
Charms of Precedence - A Tale
© William Shenstone
"Sir, will you please to walk before?"-
"No, pray, Sir-you are next the door."-
Confessional
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Search thou my heart;
If there be guile,
It shall depart
Before thy smile.
Chinese Poet Among Barbarians
© John Gould Fletcher
The rain drives, drives endlessly,
Heavy threads of rain;
Cutty Sark
© Hart Crane
in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged
Stamboul Nightsweaving somebodys nickelsang
Curtius
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine!
If loved I dismal thoughts I well could deem
Thou sawest not the blue of my fond eyes,
But looked between the lips of that dread pit,-
O Jove! to name it seems to curse the air
With chills of death! We'll speak not of it, Curtius.
Communicants
© Madison Julius Cawein
Who knows the things they dream, alas!
Or feel, who lie beneath the ground?
Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass
That close them round.
Compensation
© Giordano Bruno
The moth beholds not death as forth he flies
Into the splendor of the living flame;
Carrickfergus
© Louis MacNeice
I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries
To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams:
Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim
Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams
