Car poems
/ page 437 of 738 /
Beowulf
© Charles Baudelaire
LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
© Pablo Neruda
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
Of the Progress of the Soul: The Second Anniversary
© John Donne
(excerpt)
OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL
Wherein,
by occasion of the religious death of Mistress
The Cure For Weariness
© Edgar Albert Guest
Seemed like I couldn't stand it any more,
The factory whistles blowin' day by day,
Sonnet LX: Lo, Here the Impost
© Samuel Daniel
Lo, here the impost of a faith unfeigning
That love hath paid, and her disdain extorted,
Still, Citizen Sparrow
© Lola Ridge
Still, citizen sparrow, this vulture which you call
Unnatural, let him but lumber again to air
Over the rotten office, let him bear
The carrion ballast up, and at the tall
Corsons Inlet
© Archie Randolph Ammons
I went for a walk over the dunes again this morning
to the sea,
then turned right along
the surf
rounded a naked headland
and returned
By The Sea
© George Essex Evans
Bright skies of summer oer the deep,
And soft salt air along the land,
Marching Men
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Under the level winter sky
I saw a thousand Christs go by.
They sang an idle song and free
As they went up to calvary.
Immigrants in Our Own Land
© James Russell Lowell
We are born with dreams in our hearts,
looking for better days ahead.
For The King
© Francis Bret Harte
As you look from the plaza at Leon west
You can see her house, but the view is best
From the porch of the church where she lies at rest;
The Snowmass Cycle
© Stephen Dunn
If the rich are casually cruel
perhaps its because
they can stare at the sky
and never see an indictment
in the shape of clouds.
Kathleen
© John Greenleaf Whittier
O Norah, lay your basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
And come and hear me sing a song
Of our old Ireland.
The Dream
© Caroline Norton
Ah! bless'd are they for whom 'mid all their pains
That faithful and unalter'd love remains;
Who, Life wreck'd round them,--hunted from their rest,--
And, by all else forsaken or distress'd,--
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine--
As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine!
Little Elsie
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
An, don't come a-wooing with your long, long face,
And your longer purse behind:
Out Of The Day
© Edgar Albert Guest
OUT of the day you have taken what,
Crown of laurels and wreath of bay?
