Poems begining by H
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Hildebrand, Who was frightened by a Passing Motor, and was brought to Reason.
© Hilaire Belloc
"Oh murder! What was that, Papa!"
"My child, It was a Motor-Car,
A most Ingenious Toy!
Designed to Captivate and Charm
Much rather than to rouse Alarm
In any English Boy.
Harlem Wine
© Countee Cullen
This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams
Half an Hour
© Jean Valentine
Hurt, hurtful, snake-charmed,
struck white together half an hour we tear
through the half-dark after
Hearing
© William Stanley Merwin
Back when it took all day to come up
from the curving broad ponds on the plains
where the green-winged jaçanas ran on the lily pads
Hypocrite Women
© Denise Levertov
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak
of our own doubts, while dubiously
we mother man in his doubt!
Harriet Beecher Stowe
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
Have You Prayed?
© Li-Young Lee
When the wind
turns and asks, in my father’s voice,
Have you prayed?
Hymn to the Comb-Over by Wesley McNair: American Life in Poetry #122 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate
© Ted Kooser
The chances are very good that you are within a thousand yards of a man with a comb-over, and he may even be somewhere in your house. Here's Maine poet, Wesley McNair, with his commentary on these valorous attempts to disguise hair loss.
How Are Thy Servants Blest, O Lord!
© Joseph Addison
How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defense!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.
Her my body
© Richard Jones
The dog licks my hand as I worry
about the left nipple
of the woman in the bathroom.
Holy Thursday: 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean
© William Blake
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
Helen Of Troy
© Sara Teasdale
Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn
The flames' red wings soar upward duskily.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead
That sparkled so the day I saw it first,
Here And There: Or This World And The Next: Being Suitable Thoughts For A New Year
© Hannah More
Here bliss is short, imperfect, insincere,
But total, absolute, and perfect there.
How?
© Franklin Pierce Adams
How can I work when you play the piano,
Feminine person above?
How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano
Singing: "Ah, Love--"?
His Confidence
© William Butler Yeats
Undying love to buy
I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done.
What payment were enough
For undying love?
Holy Sonnets: This is my play's last scene
© John Donne
This is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,
House of Shadows. Home of Simile
© Eavan Boland
One afternoon of summer rain
my hand skimmed a shelf and I found
an old florin. Ireland, 1950.
