Dreams poems

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Three Women

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

The Wayfarer

© Sara Teasdale

But now that he has gone his way,
I miss the old sweet pain,
And sometimes in the night I pray
That he may come again.

Autobiography

© Louis MacNeice

In my childhood trees were green

And there was plenty to be seen.

The future I read in toil's guerdon,
You will read in your children's eyes:
The past--the same past with either--
Is to you a delightsome scene,
But I cannot trace it clearly
For the graves that rise between.

Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter

© Pindar

There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.

A Poet To His Baby Son

© James Weldon Johnson

Tiny bit of humanity,
Blessed with your mothers face,
And cursed with your fathers mind.

La Belle Juive

© Henry Timrod

Is it because your sable hair
Is folded over brows that wear
At times a too imperial air;

A Lullaby

© Madison Julius Cawein

In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep
The twilight comes like a little goose-girl,
Herding her owls with many "tu-whoos,"
Her little brown owls in the woodland deep,
Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,
And gown of glimmering pearl.

Invisible Dreams

© Toi Derricotte

La poesie vit d’insomnie perpetuelle
—René Char
There’s a sickness in me. During
the night I wake up & it’s brought

Helen Of Troy

© Sara Teasdale

Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn
The flames' red wings soar upward duskily.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead
That sparkled so the day I saw it first,

Christabel

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.