Children poems
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The Wolfe New Ballad Of Jane Roney And Mary Brown
© William Makepeace Thackeray
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek
I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,
Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,
Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.
Essay on Psychiatrists
© Robert Pinsky
It's crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eyes and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
For Laurel and Hardy on My Workroom Wall
© David Wagoner
Theyre tipping their battered derbies and striding forward
In step for a change, chipper, self-assured,
The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 15
© William Langland
Ac after my wakynge it was wonder longe
Er I koude kyndely knowe what was Dowel.
The Gumsucker's Dirge
© Joseph Furphy
Sing the evil days we see, and the worse that are to be,
In such doggerel as dejection will allow,
We are pilgrims, sorrow-led, with no Beulah on ahead,
No elysian Up the Country for us now.
A Note on My Son’s Face
© Toi Derricotte
Mother. Grandmother. Wise
Snake-woman who will show the way;
Spider-woman whose black tentacles
hold him precious. Or will tear off his head,
her teeth over the little husband,
the small fist clotted in trust at her breast.
Parted
© Alice Meynell
Farewell to one now silenced quite,
Sent out of hearing, out of sight,-
My friend of friends, whom I shall miss,
He is not banished, though, for this,-
Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.
Ritual One
© David Ignatow
All through the play I scream
and am invited on stage to take a bow.
I lose my senses and kick the actors in the teeth.
Among The Timothy
© Archibald Lampman
Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,
Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,
from Omeros
© Derek Walcott
In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez,
the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane
down the archipelago’s highways. The first breeze
Up at a Villa—Down in the City
© Robert Browning
(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!
After Reading Trollope's History Of Florence
© Eugene Field
My books are on their shelves again
And clouds lie low with mist and rain.
Afar the Arno murmurs low
The tale of fields of melting snow.
List to the bells of times agone
The while I wait me for the dawn.
From “Odi Barbare”
© Geoffrey Hill
xxiv
What is far hence led to the den of making:
Moves unlike wildfire | not so simple-happy
Ploughman hammers ploughshare his durum dentem
Digging the Georgics
Curriculum Vitae
© Anthony Evan Hecht
As though it were reluctant to be day,
…….Morning deploys a scale
…….Of rarities in gray,
And winter settles down in its chain-mail,
The Battle Of Naseby
© Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
© Emma Lazarus
Here, where the noises of the busy town,
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with tearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
