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To Thyrza: And Thou Art Dead, As Young And Fair
© George Gordon Byron
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
Magnitudes
© Howard Nemerov
Earth’s Wrath at our assaults is slow to come
But relentless when it does. It has to do
Crossroads in the Past
© John Ashbery
That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,
but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.
“That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction?
‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we do
when we make love or do something else there are no rules for.”
A Single Smile
© Paul Eluard
A single smile disputes
Each star with the gathering night
A single smile for us both
If? See No End In Is
© Frank Bidart
What none knows is when, not if.
Now that your life nears its end
when you turn back what you see
is ruin. You think, It is a prison. No,
it is a vast resonating chamber in
which each thing you say or do is
Impression Du Matin
© Oscar Wilde
THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
Voyages
© Hart Crane
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
The Cry Of A Lost Soul
© John Greenleaf Whittier
In that black forest, where, when day is done,
With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
Five Visions of Captain Cook
© Kenneth Slessor
Two chronometers the captain had,
One by Arnold that ran like mad,
One by Kendal in a walnut case,
Poor devoted creature with a hangdog face.
My Mother-Land
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
Death! What of death?--
Can he who once drew honorable breath
In liberty's pure sphere,
Foster a sensual fear,
When death and slavery meet him face to face,
Phillis I Long Yr Powr Have Ownd
© Thomas Parnell
Phillis I long yr powr have ownd
& you still gently swayd
The More a Man Has the More a Man Wants
© Paul Muldoon
At four in the morning he wakes
to the yawn of brakes,
In The Night
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Where art thou, thou lost face,
Which, yet a little while, wert making mirth
At these new years which seemed too sad to be?
Where art thou fled which for a minute's space
Song: I once rejoiced, sweet evening gale...
© Amelia Opie
I once rejoiced, sweet evening gale,
To see thy breath the poplar wave;
But now it makes my cheek turn pale,
It waves the grass oer Henrys grave.
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXXVII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
She seemed to change as if with a change of the wind,
And growing serious sighed, ``Now look,'' she said,
``You think me a mad woman and unkind,
But that is nonsense. I am sound of head
