Good poems

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In My Solitary Hours in My Dear Husband his Absence

© Anne Bradstreet

O Lord, Thou hear'st my daily moan
And see'st my dropping tears.
My troubles all are Thee before,
My longings and my fears.

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In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen ELIZABETH

© Anne Bradstreet

3.1 Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed
3.2 O' th' Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
3.3 Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
3.4 This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:
3.5 On neither tree did grow such Rose before,
3.6 The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

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Here Follow Several Occasional Meditations

© Anne Bradstreet

By night when others soundly slept,
And had at once both case and rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

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Epitaphs

© Anne Bradstreet

Her Mother's EpitaphHere lies
A worthy matron of unspotted life,
A loving mother and obedient wife,
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor,

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Tangerine by Ruth L. Schwartz: American Life in Poetry #54 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

Poet Ruth L. Schwartz writes of the glimpse of possibility, of something sweeter than we already have that comes to us, grows in us. The unrealizable part of it causes bitterness; the other opens outward, the cycle complete. This is both a poem about a tangerine and about more than that.

Tangerine

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November

© John Crowe Ransom

THERE'S a patch of trees at the edge of the field,
  And a brown little house that is kept so warm,
  And a woman waiting by the hearth
  Who still keeps most of a woman's charm.

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Soli Cantare Periti Arcades

© Ernest Christopher Dowson

Oh, I would live in a dairy,
  And its Colin I would be,
  And many a rustic fairy
  Should churn the milk with me.

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Contemplations

© Anne Bradstreet

1 Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
2 When Ph{oe}bus wanted but one hour to bed,
3 The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
4 Were gilded o're by his rich golden head.

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A Dialogue between Old England and New

© Anne Bradstreet

New England. 1 Alas, dear Mother, fairest Queen and best,
2 With honour, wealth, and peace happy and blest,
3 What ails thee hang thy head, and cross thine arms,
4 And sit i' the dust to sigh these sad alarms?

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Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 18th

© Anne Bradstreet

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

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Yussouf

© James Russell Lowell

A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent,
Saying, 'Behold one outcast and in dread,
Against whose life the bow of power is bent,
Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;
I come to thee for shelter and for food,
To Yussouf, called through all our tribes "The Good."

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Here Follows Some Verses upon the Burning of Our House

© Anne Bradstreet

In silent night when rest I took
For sorrow near I did not look
I waked was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

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By Night when Others Soundly Slept

© Anne Bradstreet

. By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

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Laws For Creations

© Walt Whitman

LAWS for Creations,
For strong artists and leaders-for fresh broods of teachers, and
  perfect literats for America,
For noble savants, and coming musicians.

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The Charm Of 5:30

© David Berman

We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun,
the sky is blueberries and cream,
and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard
Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is..."

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Self-Portrait At 28

© David Berman

If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.

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Not To The Staring Day

© William Ernest Henley

Not to the staring Day,

For all the importunate questionings he pursues

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Ensilage

© James McIntyre

The farmers now should all adorn
A few fields with sweet southern corn,
It is luscious, thick and tall,
The beauty of the fields in fall.

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The Patriot Engineer

© George Meredith

'Sirs! may I shake your hands?
My countrymen, I see!
I've lived in foreign lands
Till England's Heaven to me.
A hearty shake will do me good,
And freshen up my sluggish blood.'