Car poems
/ page 670 of 738 /
Like Truthless Dreams, So Are My Joys Expired
© Sir Walter Raleigh
Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retired—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.
A Literature Lesson. Sir Patrick Spens in the Eighteenth Century Manner
© Sir Walter Raleigh
He spake: and straightway, rising from his side
An ancient senator, of reverend pride,
Unsealed his lips, and uttered from his soul
Great store of flatulence and rigmarole;
-- All fled the Court, which shades of night invest,
And Pope and Gay and Prior told the rest.
Song of Myself
© Sir Walter Raleigh
I was a Poet!
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
A Farewell to False Love
© Sir Walter Raleigh
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
The Nymph's Reply To The Shepherd
© Sir Walter Raleigh
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Each small gleam was a voice,
© Stephen Crane
Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice --
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colours came over the water;
The impact of a dollar upon the heart
© Stephen Crane
The impact of a dollar upon the heart
Smiles warm red light,
Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the white table,
With the hanging cool velvet shadows
Moving softly upon the door.
I stood upon a high place,
© Stephen Crane
I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
and carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said, "Comrade! Brother!"
God fashioned the ship of the world carefully.
© Stephen Crane
God fashioned the ship of the world carefully.
With the infinite skill of an All-Master
Made He the hull and the sails,
Held He the rudder
In The Kalahari Desert
© Craig Raine
The sun rose like a tarnished
looking-glass to catch the sunand flash His hot message
at the missionaries below--Isabella and the Rev. Roger Price,
and the Helmores with a broken axleleft, two days behind, at Fever Ponds.
City Gent
© Craig Raine
On my desk, a set of labels
or a synopsis of leeks,
blanched by the sun
and trailing their roots
A Martian Sends A Postcard Home
© Craig Raine
Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings --they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
Pi
© Wislawa Szymborska
The admirable number pi:
three point one four one.
All the following digits are also just a start,
five nine two because it never ends.
Still
© Wislawa Szymborska
In sealed box cars travel
names across the land,
and how far they will travel so,
and will they ever get out,
don't ask, I won't say, I don't know.
The Quarry
© William Vaughn Moody
Between the rice swamps and the fields of tea
I met a sacred elephant, snow-white.
Upon his back a huge pagoda towered
Full of brass gods and food of sacrifice.
The Daguerreotype
© William Vaughn Moody
This, then, is she,
My mother as she looked at seventeen,
When she first met my father. Young incredibly,
Younger than spring, without the faintest trace
Gloucester Moods
© William Vaughn Moody
A mile behind is Gloucester town
Where the flishing fleets put in,
A mile ahead the land dips down
And the woods and farms begin.
An Ode in Time of Hesitation
© William Vaughn Moody
After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted negro regiment, the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.
I Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made
To thrill the heedless passer's heart with awe,
And set here in the city's talk and trade
The Curtain
© Hayden Carruth
renewing field of corpse-flesh.
In this valley the snow falls silently all day and out our window
We see the curtain of it shifting and folding, hiding us away in
Saturday At The Border
© Hayden Carruth
Here I am writing my first villanelle
At seventy-two, and feeling old and tired--
"Hey, Pops, why dontcha give us the old death knell?"--
