Great poems
/ page 268 of 549 /
The Wife of Bath's Tale
© Geoffrey Chaucer
7. "But in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and
silver, but also of wood and of earth; and some to honour, and
some to dishonour." -- 2 Tim. ii 20.
The General Prologue
© Geoffrey Chaucer
There was also a Reeve, and a Millere,
A Sompnour, and a Pardoner also,
A Manciple, and myself, there were no mo'.
The Knight's Tale
© Geoffrey Chaucer
Upon that other side, Palamon,
When that he wist Arcita was agone,
Much sorrow maketh, that the greate tower
Resounded of his yelling and clamour
The pure* fetters on his shinnes great *very
Were of his bitter salte teares wet.
Double Ballade on the Nothingness of Things
© William Ernest Henley
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The Hudson
© Luis Benitez
Now nobody says "horse"
and there is a new colt in the world.
From now on, damn, bless,
the bread that you take to your mouth will taste of contradiction.
I See A Woman Making Up
© Luis Benitez
I see a woman any woman making up and change
first she is thinking of something else (because when
a woman
begins to make up she hasn't yet separated this act
Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation
© Stanley Kunitz
Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
The Science Of The Night
© Stanley Kunitz
I touch you in the night, whose gift was you,
My careless sprawler,
And I touch you cold, unstirring, star-bemused,
That have become the land of your self-strangeness.
On The Skeleton Of A Hound
© James Wright
Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float
Tendril and string against the crumbling wall,
Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief,
His locks for comfort curled among the leaf.
The Death of Nicou
© Thomas Chatterton
On Tiber's banks, Tiber, whose waters glide
In slow meanders down to Gaigra's side;
And circling all the horrid mountain round,
Rushes impetuous to the deep profound;
Eclogues
© Thomas Chatterton
Syke Nigel sed, whan from the bluie sea
The upswol sayle dyd daunce before hys eyne;
Swefte as the wishe, hee toe the beeche dyd flee,
And found his fadre steppeynge from the bryne.
Letter thyssen menne, who haveth sprite of loove,
Bethyncke unto hemselves how mote the meetynge proove.
There was an Old Man of Calcutta
© Edward Lear
There was an old man of Calcutta,
Who perpetually ate bread & butter;
Till a great bit of muffin on which he was stuffing,
Choked that horrid old man of Calcutta.
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear
© Edward Lear
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.
As Consequent, Etc.
© Walt Whitman
AS consequent from store of summer rains,
Or wayward rivulets in autumn flowing,
Or many a herb-lined brooks reticulations,
Or subterranean sea-rills making for the sea,
Year of Meteors, 1859 60.
© Walt Whitman
YEAR of meteors! brooding year!
I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs;
I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;
I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the scaffold in Virginia;
How Solemn as One by One.
© Walt Whitman
HOW solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweatyas the men file by where I stand;
As the faces, the masks appearas I glance at the faces, studying the masks;
(As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you are;)
Centenarians Story, The.
© Walt Whitman
GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary;
The hill-top is nighbut a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;)
Up the path you have followd me well, spite of your hundred and extra years;
You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done;
Artillerymans Vision, The.
© Walt Whitman
WHILE my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the breath of my infant,
There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me:
Song of the Exposition.
© Walt Whitman
1
AFTER all, not to create only, or found only,
But to bring, perhaps from afar, what is already founded,
To give it our own identity, average, limitless, free;
What think You I take my Pen in Hand?
© Walt Whitman
WHAT think you I take my pen in hand to record?
The battle-ship, perfect-modeld, majestic, that I saw pass the offing to-day under full
sail?
