Poems begining by H

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here is little Effie's head

© Edward Estlin Cummings

here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

here's to opening and upward

© Edward Estlin Cummings

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

hate blows a bubble of despair into

© Edward Estlin Cummings

hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and young

Humanity i love you

© Edward Estlin Cummings

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

Hymn To Adversity

© Thomas Gray

Daughter of Jove, relentless Power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour
The Bad affright, afflict the Best!

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

Hawk Roosting

© Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960

© James Wright

After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.

Hook

© James Wright

Then the young Sioux
Loomed beside me, his scars
Were just my age.

Heccar and Gaira

© Thomas Chatterton

Where the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave,
Urging his thunders thro' the echoing cave;
Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen,
Drive the white currents thro' the spreading green;

Here

© Grace Paley

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face

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.

Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour.

© Walt Whitman

HAST never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business aimsbooks, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?

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;)

Hours Continuing Long.

© Walt Whitman

HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented spot, seating myself,
leaning
my face in my hands;

Hushd be the Camps To-day.

© Walt Whitman

1
HUSHD be the camps to-day;
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;
And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate,

Here, Sailor.

© Walt Whitman

WHAT ship, puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning?
Or, coming in, to avoid the bars, and follow the channel, a perfect pilot needs?
Here, sailor! Here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot,
Whom, in a little boat, putting off, and rowing, I, hailing you, offer.