Poems begining by F

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Fate.

© Robert Crawford

O Thou, who knowest whence we came, and can
Endow a moment with the mood of Man,
When my wan moment like a dream is gone,
Destroy or take me then where I began.

Frenzy

© Anne Sexton

I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God

For God While Sleeping

© Anne Sexton

Sleeping in fever, I am unfair
to know just who you are:
hung up like a pig on exhibit,
the delicate wrists,

Flee On Your Donkey

© Anne Sexton

Today an intern knocks my knees,
testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack
on the stethoscope.

For The Year Of The Insane

© Anne Sexton

a prayerO Mary, fragile mother,
hear me, hear me now
although I do not know your words.
The black rosary with its silver Christ

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife

© Anne Sexton

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

Fall of the Evening Star

© Kenneth Patchen

And the earth takes it softly, in natural love…
Exactly as we take each other…
and go to sleep…

from "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"

© William Carlos Williams

Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-

Female Fashions for 1799

© Mary Darby Robinson

A form, as any taper, fine ;
A head like half-pint bason ;
Where golden cords, and bands entwine,
As rich as fleece of JASON.

Fridleif and Helga

© George Borrow

The woods were in leaf, and they cast a sweet shade;

Among them walk'd Helga, the beautiful maid.

For Lucy, Who Came First

© Marilyn L. Taylor

She simply settled down in one piece right where she was,
in the sand of a long-vanished lake edge or stream--and died.
Donald C. Johanson, paleoanthropologist

With Apologies to Mr. Swinburne.
For repose I have sighed and have struggled ; have sigh'd and have struggled in vain;
I am held in the Circle of Being and caught in the Circle of Pain.
I was wan and weary with life ; my sick soul yearned for death;

Father of light, and life, and love!

Father of light, and life, and love!
Thyself to us reveal;
As saints below, and saints above,
Thy sacred presence feel.

French Pioneers

New France, New Spain, New England
Which will it be?
Who will win the new land?
The land across the sea?

For The Wine Of Circle By Edward Burne Jones

DUSK-HAIRED and gold-robed o'er the golden wine

She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame,

From the Hymn of Empedocles

IS it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;