Car poems
/ page 506 of 738 /
Strange Fruit
© Robert Laurence Binyon
This year the grain is heavy--ripe;
The apple shows a ruddier stripe;
Never berries so profuse
Blackened with so sweet a juice
Hell in Texas
© Anonymous
The devil, we're told, in hell was chained,
and a thousand years he there remained,
and he never complained, nor did he groan,
but determined to start a hell of his own
where he could torment the souls of men
without being chained to a prison pen.
F. W. C.
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
FAST as the rolling seasons bring
The hour of fate to those we love,
The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 13
© William Langland
And I awaked therwith, witlees nerhande,
And as a freke that fey were, forth gan I walke
The Nut-Brown Maid. A Poem.
© Matthew Prior
Man. I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banishyd man.
Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Knowledge. Book I.
© Matthew Prior
But, O! ere yet original man was made,
Ere the foundations of this earth were laid,
It was opponent to our search ordain'd,
That joy still sought should never be attain'd:
This sad experience cites me to reveal,
And what I dictate is from what I feel.
Conclusion Of A Letter To The Rev. Mr. C---.
© Mary Barber
'Tis Time to conclude; for I make it a Rule,
To leave off all Writing, when Con. comes from School.
He dislikes what I've written, and says, I had better
To send what he calls a poetical Letter.
Poem Reaching For Something
© Quincy Troupe
we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads
ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our
spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to
dance, like enraptured water lilies
Variations on an Elizabethan Theme
© Edgar Bowers
Long days, short nights, this Southern summer
Fixes the mind within its timeless place.
Athwart pale limbs the brazen hummer
Hangs and is gone, warm sound its quickened space.
To an ingenious young Gentleman, on his dedicating a Poem to the Author.
© Mather Byles
To you, dear Youth, whom all the Muses own,
And great Apollo speaks his darling Son,
Mary
© Edgar Bowers
The angel of self-discipline, her guardian
Since she first knew and had to go away
From home that spring to have her child with strangers,
Sustained her, till the vanished boy next door
Dedication for a House
© Edgar Bowers
We, who were long together homeless, raise
Brick walls, wood floors, a roof, and windows up
To what sustained us in those threatening days
Unto this end. Alas, that this bright cup
Be empty of the care and life of him
Who should have made it overflow its brim.
Amelia
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Whene'er mine eyes do my Amelia greet
It is with such emotion
As when, in childhood, turning a dim street,
I first beheld the ocean.
To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut in America
© Philip Morin Freneau
Nil mortalibus ardui est
Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia
Horace
To the Memory of the Brave Americans
© Philip Morin Freneau
AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er--
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
Memory of France
© Paul Celan
Together with me recall: the sky of Paris,
that giant autumn crocus...
We went shopping for hearts at the flower girl's booth:
they were blue and they opened up in the water.
On a Honey Bee
© Philip Morin Freneau
Thou born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?--
Does Bacchus tempting seem--
Did he, for you, the glass prepare?--
Will I admit you to a share?
On Retirement
© Philip Morin Freneau
A HERMIT'S house beside a stream
With forests planted round,
Whatever it to you may seem
More real happiness I deem
Than if I were a monarch crowned.
Kindliness
© Rupert Brooke
When love has changed to kindliness -
Oh, love, our hungry lips, that press
A Thought or Two on Reading Pomfret's
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
I have been reading Pomfret's "Choice" this spring,
A pretty kind of--sort of--kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
