Cool poems
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Helen
© Hilda Doolittle
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.
From Citron-Bower
© Hilda Doolittle
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
Evadne
© Hilda Doolittle
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
Cassandra
© Hilda Doolittle
O Hymen king. Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
The Frost-King - Song II
© Louisa May Alcott
Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
The Leader and the Bad Girl
© Henry Lawson
BECAUSE HE had sinned and suffered, because he loved the land,
And because of his wonderful sympathy, he held mens hearts in his hand.
Born and bred of the people, he knew their every whim,
And because he had struggled through poverty he could draw the poor to him:
Speaker and leader and poet, tall and handsome and strong,
With the eyes of a dog for faith and truth that blazed at the thought of a wrong.
Enchantment
© Madison Julius Cawein
The deep seclusion of this forest path, -
O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy;
Thirst
© Claude McKay
My spirit wails for water, water now!
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough,
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
Subway Wind
© Claude McKay
Far down, down through the city's great, gaunt gut,
The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;
In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut,
Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.
Memorial
© Claude McKay
Your body was a sacred cell always,
A jewel that grew dull in garish light,
An opal which beneath my wondering gaze
Gleamed rarely, softly throbbing in the night.
Italy : 40. Banditti
© Samuel Rogers
'Tis a wild life, fearful and full of change,
The mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies,
Levelling his carbine at the passenger;
And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep.
Adolescence
© Claude McKay
There was a time when in late afternoon
The four-o'clocks would fold up at day's close
Pink-white in prayer, and 'neath the floating moon
I lay with them in calm and sweet repose.
Absence
© Claude McKay
Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool,
Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb,
Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties
Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word,
The Little Orphan
© Edgar Albert Guest
Then through the hot and sultry day he plays at "make-pretend,"
The alley is a sandy beach where all the rich folks send
Their little boys and girls to play, a barrel is his boat,
But, oh, the air is tifling and the dust fills up his throat;
And though he tries so very hard to play, somehow it seems
He never gets such wondrous joys as angels bring in dreams.
Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song I
© Louisa May Alcott
Awake! Awake! for the earliest gleam
Of golden sunlight shines
The Threshold Stone
© Roderic Quinn
WHEN I went to live in the little house,
That stands on the hilltop alone,
What touched me most of all
Was neither roof nor wall,
My Word!
© Edgar Albert Guest
You can tyke h'it from me, 'e's as cool as a cucumber,
Never goes balmy h'or loses 'is 'ead,
