Poems begining by E
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Epitaph: On the Reverend Mr. Penrose
© Hannah More
If social manners, if the gentlest mind,
If zeal for God, and love for human kind,
If all the charities which life endear,
May claim affection, or demand a tear,
Then, o'er Penrose's venerable urn
Domestic love may weep, and friendship mourn.
El Son Del Corazon
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
Una música intima no cesa
porque transida en un abrazo de oro
la Caridad con el Amor se besa.
Epistle To Augusta
© George Gordon Byron
I.
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine;
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer, Bart.
© Samuel Johnson
Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie;
Everybody by Marie Sheppard Williams : American Life in Poetry #243 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2
© Ted Kooser
Lots of contemporary poems are anecdotal, a brief narration of some event, and what can make them rise above anecdote is when they manage to convey significance, often as the poem closes. Here is an example of one like that, by Marie Sheppard Williams, who lives in Minneapolis.
Everybody
I stood at a bus corner
Epitaph, Intended For Himself
© James Beattie
Escaped the gloom of mortal life, a soul
Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay,
Safe where no cares their whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
If I have since done evil in my life,
I was not born for evil. This I know.
My soul was a thing pure from sensual strife.
No vice of the blood foredoomed me to this woe.
Eidolons
© Madison Julius Cawein
The white moth-mullein brushed its slim
Cool, faery flowers against his knee;
In places where the way lay dim
The branches, arching suddenly,
Made tomblike mystery for him.
Ecclesiastes
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
UNDER the fluent folds of needlework,
Where Balkis prick'd the histories of kings
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXXI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The booths were shut. The Fair was at an end,
And the crowd gone with multitudinous feet
Noisily home, or lingering still to spend
At Café doors or at the turn of the street
England To Free Men
© John Galsworthy
Men of my blood, you English men!
From misty hill and misty fen,
From cot, and town, and plough, and moor,
Come in - before I shut the door!
England
© William Wilfred Campbell
ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.
Editing Poetry
© Karl Shapiro
Next to my office where I edit poems ("Can poems be edited?") there is the Chicago Models club. All day the girls stroll past my door where I am editing poems, behind my head a signed photograph of Rupert Brooke, handsomer than any movie star. I edit, keeping one eye peeled for models, straining my ears to hear what they say. In there they photograph the girls on the bamboo furniture, glossies for the pulsing facades of night spots. One day the manager brings me flowers, a huge and damaged bouquet: hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns (least hurt), and bruised carnations. I accept the gift, remainder of last night's opening (where?), debut of lower-class blondes. I distribute the flowers in the other poetry rooms, too formal-looking for our disarray.
Now after every model's bow to the footlights the manager brings more flowers, hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns, and bruised carnations. I edit poems to the click of sharp high heels, flanked by the swords of lavendar debut, whiffing the cinnamon of crepe-paper-pink carnations of the bruised and lower-class blondes.
Behind me rears my wall of books, most formidable of himan barriers. No flower depresses me like the iris but these I have a fondness for. They bring stale memories ver the threshold of the street. They bring the night of cloth palm trees and soft plastic leopard charis, night of sticky drinks, the shining rhinestone hour in the dark-blue mirror, the peroxide chat of models and photogenic morn.
Today the manager brings all gladioli. A few rose petals lie in the corridor. The mail is heavy this morning.
Extremes
© James Whitcomb Riley
A little boy once played so loud
That the Thunder, up in a thunder-cloud,
Said, "Since I can't be heard, why, then
I'll never, never thunder again!"
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXVIII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The summer I had passed in my own fashion
High in the Alps, a proselyte to toil.
I was released and free, and spent my passion
On the bare rocks as on a fruitful soil.
Elegy XI. He Complains How Soon the Pleasing Novelty of Life Is Over
© William Shenstone
Ah me, my Friend! it will not, will not last,
This fairy scene, that cheats our youthful eyes;
The charm dissolves; th' aerial music's past;
The banquet ceases, and the vision flies.
Elegy For Whatever Had A Pattern In It
© Larry Levis
Keep your eyes on him as he lifts & swings fifty-pound boxes of late
Elberta peaches up to me where I'm standing on a flatbed trailer & breathing in
Tractor exhaust so thick it bends the air, bends things seen through it
Envoi des feuilles d'automne
© Victor Marie Hugo
Ce livre errant qui va l'aile brisée,
Et que le vent jette à votre croisée
Comme un grêlon à tous les murs cogné,
Earth Is Enough
© Edwin Markham
Here on the paths of every-day -
Here on the common human way
Is all the stuff the gods would take
To build a Heaven, to mold and make
New Edens. Ours is the stuff sublime
To build Eternity in time!
Eclipse
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
So for the luxury of the flesh, wrap it in fur of fox that it be warm,
In the bear's coat sheltering its nakedness from storm.
