Poems begining by H
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Hide-And-Seek
© Vasko Popa
Someone hides from someone else
Hides under his tongue
The other looks for him under the earth
Hymn 103
© Isaac Watts
Come, happy souls, approach your God
With new melodious songs;
Come, tender to almighty grace
The tribute of your tongues.
Hellas
© Oscar Wilde
To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Hornet
© Anne Sexton
A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
Hurry Up Please It's Time
© Anne Sexton
What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
Her Face.
© Robert Crawford
There is a something in her face
Which in no other I can trace,
And feelings sweet as music stir
When I gaze in her dreamy eyes,
Her Kind
© Anne Sexton
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
He Had So Much Work To Do
© Henry Lawson
Jim was trucking for a sawmill to make money for the home,
He was making, out of Mudgee, for the family to come,
And a load-chain snapped the switch-bar, and Black Anderson found Jim,
In the morning, in a creek-bed, with a log on top of him.
Heel & Toe To The End
© William Carlos Williams
Gagarin says, in ecstasy,
he could have
gone on forever
Heavenis what I cannot reach!
© Emily Dickinson
"Heaven"is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree
Provided it do hopelesshang
That"Heaven" isto Me!
Horas Vivas
© Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis
Noite: abrem-se as flores . . .
Que esplendores!
Cíntia sonha seus amores
Pelo céu.
Hurrah for Cooper and Cary
© Julia A Moore
It is now one hundred years,
Or just one century,
Stood grand this good old nation,
And our forefathers fought
That we may not be a slave -
A slave to the monarchy of England.
Harlem Shadows
© Claude McKay
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.
Harvest-Home
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
O'ER all the fragrant land this harvest day,
What bounteous sheaves are garnered, ear and blade!
Whether the heavens be golden-glad, or gray,--
And the swart laborers toil in sun or shade:--
Hymn XXXIX : Night forbear; alas, our Praise,
© John Austin
Night forbear; alas, our Praise,
And our young begining hope,
How The Helpmate Of Blue-Beard Made Free With A Door
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
The Moral: Wives, we must allow,
Who to their husbands will not bow,
A stern and dreadful lesson learn
When, as you've read, they 're cut in turn.
Haunted
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
What are these nameless mysteries,
These subtleties of life and death,
That bring before our spirit eyes
The loved and lost; or, like a breath
Of lightest air, will touch the cheek,
And yet a wordless language speak?
How A Beauty Was Waked And Her Suitor Was Suited
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
Albeit wholly penniless,
Prince Charming wasn't any less
He came unto His own, and His own received Him not
© Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
