Good poems
/ page 411 of 545 /
Shriven
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
A.D. 1425.
I have let the world go.
Thats the door that closed
Behind the holy father. I am shrived.
A Little Christmas Basket
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
De win' is hollahin' "Daih you" to de shuttahs an' de fiah,
De snow's a-sayin' "Got you" to de groun',
Leaves Compared With Flowers
© Robert Frost
A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.
Don Diego Of The South
© Francis Bret Harte
Good!--said the Padre,--believe me still,
"Don Giovanni," or what you will,
The type's eternal! We knew him here
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear
The story's no new one! Will you hear?
Wall, Cave, And Pillar Statements, After Asoka
© Alan Dugan
In order to perfect all readers
the statements should he carved
Good-by and Keep Cold
© Robert Frost
This saying good-by on the edge of the dark
And the cold to an orchard so young in the bark
Reminds me of all that can happen to harm
An orchard away at the end of the farm
Good Hours
© Robert Frost
I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
Two Look at Two
© Robert Frost
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountain side
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
The Last Word of a Blue Bird
© Robert Frost
As told to a child
As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, "Oh,
I was looking for you.
Provide, Provide
© Robert Frost
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,
Christmas Trees
© Robert Frost
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
THE CITY had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
The Ingrate
© John Crowe Ransom
BY night we looked across my field,
The tasseled corn was fine to see,
On a Tree Fallen Across the Road
© Robert Frost
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not bar
Our passage to our journey's end for good,
But just to ask us who we think we are
The Struggle
© Hristo Botev
In sorrow youth passes, in sorrows and pains,
Angrily boils the blood in the veins;
Lowering brows - the mind cannot see,
Is it good or evil that is to be.
The Death of the Hired Man
© Robert Frost
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
The Borough. Letter XXII: Peter Grimes
© George Crabbe
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play;
Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,
But must acquire the money he would spend.
