Poems begining by C

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Consorting With Angels

© Anne Sexton

I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the post,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.

Cigarettes And Whiskey And Wild, Wild Women

© Anne Sexton

(from a song)Perhaps I was born kneeling,
born coughing on the long winter,
born expecting the kiss of mercy,
born with a passion for quickness

Courage

© Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,

Cinderella

© Anne Sexton

You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.

Cramped In That Funnelled Hole

© Wilfred Owen

Cramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn
Open a jagged rim around; a yawn
Of death's jaws, which had all but swallowed them
Stuck in the bottom of his throat of phlegm.

Complete Destruction

© William Carlos Williams

It was an icy day.We buried the cat,then took her boxand set fire to itin the back yard.Those fleas that escapedearth and firedied by the cold.

Complaint

© William Carlos Williams

They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught

Conscious

© Wilfred Owen

His fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.

His eyes come open with a pull of will,

Cromwell And The Crown

© Victor Marie Hugo

THURLOW _communicates the intention of Parliament to
offer_ CROMWELL _the crown_.

Conscience

© Robert Southwell

My conscience is my crown;
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.

Cupid Sleeping

© Mary Darby Robinson

[Inscribed to Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire.]
CLOSE in a woodbine's tangled shade,
The BLOOMING GOD asleep was laid;
His brows with mossy roses crown'd;

Canzonet

© Mary Darby Robinson

SLOW the limpid currents twining,
Brawl along the lonely dell,
'Till in one wild stream combining,
Nought its rapid course can quell;

Contradictions

© Amy Levy

Now, even, I cannot think it true,
My friend, that there is no more you.
Almost as soon were no more I,
Which were, of course, absurdity!

So long have all the days been meagre,
With empty platter, empty cup,
No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,
That if I crave--is it over-eager,
The deepest draught, the fullest measure,
The beaker to the brim poured up?