Car poems
/ page 288 of 738 /
Quatrains Of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?
The Torrent
© Mathilde Blind
OH torrent, roaring in thy giant fall,
And thund'ring grandly o'er th' opposing blocks,
The Blessed Day
© Louisa May Alcott
"What shall little children bring
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?
Art
© Alfred Noyes
Yes! Beauty still rebels!
Our dreams like clouds disperse:
She dwells
In agate, marble, verse.
Breitmann In Turkey
© Charles Godfrey Leland
DERR BREITMANN hear im Turkenreich
Vas fighten high und low,
"Steh auf, oh Schwackenhammer mein!
It's dime for us to go.
Breitmann In Rome
© Charles Godfrey Leland
DERE'S lighds oopon de Appian,
Dey shine de road entlang;
Und from ein hundert tombs dere brumms
A wild Lateinisch song;
Evensong
© Ada Cambridge
The sun has set; grey shadows darken slowly
The rose-red cloud-hills that were bathed in light
O Lord, to Thee, with spirit meek and lowly,
I kneel in prayer to-night.
Back Then by Trish Carpo : American Life in Poetry #246 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Childhood is too precious a part of life to lose before we have to, but our popular culture all too often yanks our little people out of their innocence. Here is a poem by Trish Crapo, of Leyden, Massachusetts, that captures a moment of that innocence.
Back Then
The Hares, A Fable.
© James Beattie
Mild was the morn, the sky serene,
The jolly hunting band convene,
The beagle's breast with ardour burns,
The bounding steed the champaign spurns,
And Fancy oft the game descries
Through the hound's nose, and huntsman's eyes.
On An Engraving Of Hindoo Temples
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
LITTLE the present careth for the past,
Too little'tis not well!
For careless ones we dwell
Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast.
Palmyra (2nd Edition)
© Thomas Love Peacock
--anankta ton pantôn huperbal-
lonta chronon makarôn.
Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33
I cried at Pitynot at Pain
© Emily Dickinson
I cried at Pitynot at Pain
I heard a Woman say
"Poor Child"and something in her voice
Convicted meof me
Song of the Old Bullock-Driver
© Henry Lawson
Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble
In long single file neath the evergreen tree,
I See Around Me Tombstones Grey
© Emily Jane Brontë
I see around me tombstones grey
Stretching their shadows far away.
Beechwoods at Knole
© Victoria Mary Sackville-West
How do I love you, beech-trees, in the autumn,
Your stone-grey columns a cathedral nave
Processional above the earth's brown glory!
The Carpenter's Son
© Sara Teasdale
The summer dawn came over-soon,
The earth was like hot iron at noon
In Nazareth;
There fell no rain to ease the heat,
And dusk drew on with tired feet
And stifled breath.
Sonnet XXV. By The Same.
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Just before his Death.
WHY should I wish to hold in this low sphere
'A frail and feverish being?' wherefore try
Poorly from day to day to linger here,
