Poems begining by H
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His Sailing From Julia
© Robert Herrick
When that day comes, whose evening says I'm gone
Unto that watery desolation;
Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then pray,
That my wing'd ship may meet no Remora.
His Mistress To Him At His Farewell
© Robert Herrick
You may vow I'll not forget
To pay the debt
Which to thy memory stands as due
As faith can seal it you.
His Meditation Upon Death
© Robert Herrick
BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,
Blest with the meditation of my end;
Though they be few in number, I'm content;
If otherwise, I stand indifferent,
His Return To London
© Robert Herrick
From the dull confines of the drooping west,
To see the day spring from the pregnant east,
Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly
To thee, blest place of my nativity!
How Pansies Or Hearts-ease Came First
© Robert Herrick
Frolic virgins once these were,
Overloving, living here;
Being here their ends denied
Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died.
His Litany to the Holy Spirit
© Robert Herrick
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit comfort me!
His Content In The Country
© Robert Herrick
HERE, Here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Prue and me:
His Poetry His Pillar
© Robert Herrick
Only a little more
I have to write:
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.
His Loss
© Robert Herrick
All has been plunder'd from me but my wit:
Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.
Homo Faber
© Frank Bidart
Whatever lies still uncarried from the abyss within
me as I die dies with me.
Herbert White
© Frank Bidart
and then I did it to her a couple of times,--
but it was funny,--afterwards,
it was as if somebody else did it ...
Hydrangeas
© Carl Sandburg
Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas
turn rust and go soon.
Already mid September a line of brown runs
over them.
How Yesterday Looked
© Carl Sandburg
THE HIGH horses of the sea broke their white riders
On the walls that held and counted the hours
The wind lasted.
How Much?
© Carl Sandburg
HOW much do you love me, a million bushels?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more.
And to-morrow maybe only half a bushel?
House
© Carl Sandburg
TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas dont want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Horses and Men in Rain
© Carl Sandburg
LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winters day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punchesand talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Horse Fiddle
© Carl Sandburg
FIRST I would like to write for you a poem to be shouted in the teeth of a strong wind.
Next I would like to write one for you to sit on a hill and read down the river valley on a late summer afternoon, reading it in less than a whisper to Jack on his soft wire legs learning to stand up and preach, Jack-in-the-pulpit.
As many poems as I have written to the moon and the streaming of the moon spinners of light, so many of the summer moon and the winter moon I would like to shoot along to your ears for nothing, for a laugh, a song,
for nothing at all,
Hoodlums
© Carl Sandburg
I AM a hoodlum, you are a hoodlum, we and all of us are a world of hoodlumsmaybe so.
I hate and kill better men than I am, so do you, so do all of usmaybemaybe so.
In the ends of my fingers the itch for another mans neck, I want to see him hanging, one of dusks cartoons against the sunset.
This is the hate my father gave me, this was in my mothers milk, this is you and me and all of us in a world of hoodlumsmaybe so.
Hits and Runs
© Carl Sandburg
I REMEMBER the Chillicothe ball players grappling the Rock Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness.
And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown.
And the umpires voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpires throat fought in the dust for a song.
