Poems begining by C
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Calais, August 1802
© William Wordsworth
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!
Christmas Eve
© Eugene Field
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
Coomera
© Henry Lawson
THERES a pretty little story with a touch of moonlit glory
Comes from Beenleigh on the Logan, but we dont know if its true;
For we scarcely dare to credit evrything they say who edit
Those unhappy country papers twixt the ocean and Barcoo.
Churching Of Women
© John Keble
Is there, in bowers of endless spring,
One known from all the seraph band
By softer voice, by smile and wing
More exquisitely bland!
Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air
Is fragrant with a mother's first and fondest prayer.
Creeds
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
FRIEND, 'mid the complex and unnumbered creeds
Which meet and jostle on this mortal scene,
And sometimes fight a l'outrance, I perceive
Some precious seed of truth ennobling all:
Columbus Park by Anne Pierson Wiese: American Life in Poetry #130 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 200
© Ted Kooser
A number of American poets are adept at describing places and the people who inhabit them. Galway Kinnell's great poem, âThe Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ into the New Worldâ? is one of those masterpieces, and there are many others. Here Anne Pierson Wiese, winner of the Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets, adds to that tradition.
Continent's End
© Robinson Jeffers
At the equinox when the earth was veiled in a late rain, wreathed
with wet poppies, waiting spring,
The ocean swelled for a far storm and beat its boundary, the
ground-swell shook the beds of granite.
Certitude
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
There was a time when I was confident
That God's stupendous mystery of birth
Country At War
© Robert Graves
And what of home--how goes it, boys,
While we die here in stench and noise?
Crochet by Jan Mordenski : American Life in Poetry #270 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
We are sometimes amazed by how well the visually impaired navigate the world, but like the rest of us, they have found a way to do what interests them. Here Jan Mordenski of Michigan describes her mother, absorbed in crocheting.
Crochet
Even after darkness closed her eyes â¨
Chanson Sans Paroles
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
I the deep violet air,
Not a leaf is stirred;
There is no sound heard,
But afar, the rare
Trilled voice of a bird.
Chione
© Archibald Lampman
Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair
Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge,
Could You?
© Vladimir Mayakovsky
I promptly smeared the map of daily
With splashing paint in one quick motion
Como Las Esferas
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
Muchachita que eras
brevedad, redondez y color,
como las esferas
que en las rinconeras
de una sala ortodoxa mitigan su esplendor…
Courage, Courage, Courage!
© Edgar Albert Guest
When the burden grows heavy, and rough is the way,
When you falter and slip, and it isn't your day,
And your best doesn't measure to what is required,
When you know in your heart that you're fast growing tired,
With the odds all against you, there's one thing to do:
That is, call on your courage and see the thing through.
Crow Country
© Kenneth Slessor
GUTTED of station, noise alone,
The crow's voice trembles down the sky
As if this nitrous flange of stone
Wept suddenly with such a cry;
City Nightfall
© Kenneth Slessor
SMOKE upon smoke; over the stone lips
Of chimneys bleeding, a darker fume descends.
Night, the old nun, in voiceless pity bends
To kiss corruption, so fabulous her pity.
Corinna
© Thomas Campion
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear.
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Even with her sighs the strings do break.
Connecticut
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave;
'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Come to the park they say is dead, and view
© Stefan Anton George
The purple on the twists of wilding vine,
The last of asters you shall not forget,
And what of living verdure lingers yet,
Around the autumn vision lightly twine.
