Good poems
/ page 460 of 545 /
January 1
© David Lehman
Some people confuse inspiration with lightning
not me I know it comes from the lungs and air
you breathe it in you breathe it out it circulates
it's the breath of my being the wind across the face
Hermann And Dorothea - IV. Euterpe
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
"Mother," he said in confusion:--"You greatly surprise me!" and quickly
Wiped he away his tears, the noble and sensitive youngster.
"What! You are weeping, my son?" the startled mother continued
"That is indeed unlike you! I never before saw you crying!
Say, what has sadden'd your heart? What drives you to sit here all lonely
Under the shade of the pear-tree? What is it that makes you unhappy?"
Examples (August 27)
© David Lehman
The last Campbell's tomato soup can
of the twentieth century is going to
the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh
That is an example of a sentence
A Parting II
© Edith Nesbit
I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep
To chill the still bed where you lie asleep;
A Mate can do no Wrong
© Henry Lawson
We learnt the creed at Hungerford,
We learnt the creed at Bourke;
Sapientia Lunae
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
The wisdom of the world said unto me:
"_Go forth and run, the race is to the brave;
Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!_"
"As tarrieth," I said, "for sure, the grave."
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.
Sonnet XVIII: With What Sharp Checks
© Sir Philip Sidney
With what sharp checks I in myself am shent,
When into Reason's audit I do go:
And by just counts myself a bankrupt know
Of all the goods, which heav'n to me hath lent:
The Dead Player: In Memory Of Dudley Digges
© Padraic Colum
THE candles lighted and the figure prone
Announce this to you: they are laid aside,
The noble, whimsical and pathetic roles,
Disanimated, not to be resumed!
Sonnet XCII: Be Your Words Made
© Sir Philip Sidney
Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
The Third Satire Of Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Parnell
Compassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies
The tears a passage thro' my swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show,
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satyr! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satyr cur'd an old disease.
The Swan Song of Parson Avery
© John Greenleaf Whittier
When the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late,
Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife and children eight,
Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop "Watch and Wait."
Sonnet X: Reason
© Sir Philip Sidney
Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still
Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:
I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Sonnet XXIV: Rich Fools There Be
© Sir Philip Sidney
Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow:
And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart,
Wealth breeding want, more blist more wretched grow.
Dedication
© Czeslaw Milosz
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
Psalm 19: Coeli Enarrant
© Sir Philip Sidney
The heavenly frame sets forth the fame
Of him that only thunders;
The firmament, so strangely bent,
Shows his handworking wonders.
What The Voice Said
© John Greenleaf Whittier
MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil,
"Lord!" I cried in sudden ire,
"From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder,
Shake the bolted fire!
Sonnet V: It Is Most True
© Sir Philip Sidney
It is most true, that eyes are form'd to serve
The inward light; and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebles to Nature, strive for their own smart.
Sonnet XV: You That Do Search
© Sir Philip Sidney
You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
Sonnet XXX: Whether the Turkish New Moon
© Sir Philip Sidney
Whether the Turkish new moon minded be
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;
How Poles' right king means, with leave of host,
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;
