Poems begining by D

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De Profundis

© Peter McArthur

NOT yet are deeds fruition of my thought,

Nor is this body symbol of my soul,

Death The Mexican Revolutionary

© Anthony Evan Hecht

Wines of the great châteaux

Have been uncorked for you;

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,
And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.
The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.
I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,

Dew

© Sara Teasdale

As dew leaves the cobweb lightly

Threaded with stars,

Dead Men's Love

© Rupert Brooke

There was a damned successful Poet;
There was a Woman like the Sun.
And they were dead. They did not know it.
They did not know their time was done.

Day And Night

© Rupert Brooke

But when I sleep, and all my thoughts go straying,
When the high session of the day is ended,
And darkness comes; then, with the waning light,
By lilied maidens on your way attended,
Proud from the wonted throne, superbly swaying,
You, like a queen, pass out into the night.

Dawn

© Rupert Brooke

One of them wakes, and spits, and sleeps again.
The darkness shivers. A wan light through the rain
Strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere
A new day sprawls; and, inside, the foul air
Is chill, and damp, and fouler than before. . . .
Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore.

Dear Colette

© Erica Jong

Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.

Drunk As Drunk

© Pablo Neruda

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day

© Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don Rafael

© Emma Lazarus

"I would not have," he said,
"Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave,
Grief's hideous panoply I would not have
Round me when I am dead.

Der Wunsch

Wenn ich, Augenlust zu finden,
Unter schatticht kuehlen Linden
Schielend auf und nieder gehe,
Und ein haesslich Maedchen sehe,
Wuensch ich ploetzlich blind zu sein.

Domestic Work, 1937

Windows and doors flung wide,
curtains two-stepping
forward and back, neck bones
bumping in the pot, a choir
of clothes clapping on the line.

Death, that struck when I was most confiding

Death! that struck when I was most confiding.
In my certain faith of joy to be-
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!