Car poems
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His Lady Of The Sonnets XXVIII
© Robert Norwood
Accept the challenge of the royal hills,
And dare adventure as we always dared!
Life with red wine his golden chalice fills,
And bids us drink to all who forward fared
Those lost, white armies of the host of dream;
Those dauntless, singing pilgrims of the Gleam!
From 'The Cupboard' (Le buffet)
© Arthur Rimbaud
A large carved cupboard of white oak
emanates that relaxed gentle air
Old people have; open, it's kindly
shadows give off fragrances like fine
The Ogre Slam-The-Door
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
There is a certain castle that is beautiful and fair,
And plants, and birds, and pretty things, fill every room and hall,
But alas! for the unhappy folks who make their dwelling there,
A dreadful ogre haunts the house and tries to kill them all.
Some day I fear will find them dead and stretched out in their gore
The victims of this ogre grim, this wicked Slam-the-door!
The Huxter
© Edward Thomas
He has a hump like an ape on his back;
He has of money a plentiful lack;
And but for a gay coat of double his girth
There is not a plainer thing on the earth
This fine May morning.
The Everlasting Return
© Lola Ridge
Ten times we had watched the moon
Rise like a thin white virgin out of the waters
And round into a full maternity…
For thrice ten moons we had touched no flesh
Save the man flesh on either hand
That was black and bitter and salt and scaled by the sea.
Greek Religion
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Thou art become, oh Echo! a voice, an inanimate image;
Where is the palest of maids, dark--tressed, darkwreathèd with ivy,
Who with her lips half--opened, and gazes of beautiful wonder,
Quickly repeated the words that burst on her lonely recesses,
Low in a love--lorn tone, too deep--distracted to answer?
April
© Ezra Pound
Three spirits came to me
And drew me apart
To where the olive boughs
Lay stripped upon the ground:
Pale carnage beneath bright mist.
Top-O'-The-Morning
© William Henry Ogilvie
Top-o'-THE Morning's shoes are off ;
He runs in the orchard, rough, all day,
The Herd And The Mavis
© George MacDonald
"What gars ye sing," said the herd-laddie,
"What gars ye sing sae lood?"
"To tice them oot o' the yerd, laddie,
The worms for my daily food."
The Servant Girl Justified
© Jean de La Fontaine
LET us proceed, howe'er (our plan explained
A pretty servant-girl a man retain'd.
She pleas'd his eye, and presently he thought,
With ease she might to am'rous sports be brought;
He prov'd not wrong; the wench was blithe and gay,
A buxom lass, most able ev'ry way.
On The Death Of Damon. (Translated From Milton)
© William Cowper
Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shed
Erewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,
The Lodes That Under-lie
© Edwin Greenslade Murphy
O, calm and clear the liar lies
Who writes reports on mines;
Behold what knowledge deep and wise
His legend intertwines.
But ah, if he should own the lease
Supposed to hold the lode
The Squires Pew
© Jane Taylor
A SLANTING ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane ;
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again :
The window's gothic frame-work falls
In oblique shadow on the walls.
Love Disarmed
© Matthew Prior
Still lay the God: The Nymph surpriz'd,
Yet Mistress of her self, devis'd,
How She the Vagrant might inthral,
And Captive Him, who Captives All.
The Shut-Eye Sentry
© Rudyard Kipling
So it was "Rounds! What Rounds?" at two of a frosty night,
'E's 'oldin' on by the sergeant's sash, but, sentry, shut your eye.
An' it was "Pass! All's well!" Oh, ain't 'e drippin' tight!
'E'll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an'-by.
Azrael's Count
© Rudyard Kipling
Men I dismiss to the Mercy greet me not willingly;
Crying, "When seekest Thou me first? Are not my kin unslain?
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise.
Rubaiyat 20
© Shams al-Din Hafiz
This tired life is the flood of age,
With a full cup began this outrage.
Wake up, and see the carrier of time
Slowly carries you along lifes passage.
The Song Of The Kasak
© Alexander Pushkin
Kazak speeds ever toward the North,
Kazak has never heart for rest,
Not on the field, nor in the wood,
Nor when in face of danger pressed
His steed the raging stream must breast!
