Home poems
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House-Hunting
© Edgar Albert Guest
Time was when spring returned we went
To find another home to rent;
We wanted fresher, cleaner walls,
And bigger rooms and wider halls,
And open plumbing and the dome
That made the fashionable home.
At Grass
© Philip Larkin
The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and main;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again
The Minstrel; Or, The Progress Of Genius : Book I.
© James Beattie
I.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Toads Revisited
© Philip Larkin
Walking around in the park
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on,
The Song Of Honour
© Ralph Hodgson
I heard no more of bird or bell,
The mastiff in a slumber fell,
I stared into the sky,
As wondering men have always done
Since beauty and the stars were one,
Though none so hard as I.
Continuing To Live
© Philip Larkin
Continuing to live -- that is, repeat
A habit formed to get necessaries --
Is nearly always losing, or going without.
It varies.
Home Is So Sad
© Philip Larkin
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped in the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft.
Why Did I Dream Of You Last Night?
© Philip Larkin
Why did I dream of you last night?
Now morning is pushing back hair with grey light
Memories strike home, like slaps in the face;
Raised on elbow, I stare at the pale fog
beyond the window.
Poetry Of Departures
© Philip Larkin
Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
Mr Bleaney
© Philip Larkin
'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,
Love Again
© Philip Larkin
Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he's taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.
Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica)
© Jean Cocteau
The grain of rye
free from the prattle of grass
et loin de arbres orateurs
The Empty Nest
© William Watson
I saunter all about the pleasant place
You made thrice pleasant, O my friends, to me;
Stars Over The Dordogne
© Sylvia Plath
Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
The Rebel Scot
© John Cleveland
Yet wonder not at this their happy choice,
The serpent's fatal still to Paradise.
Sure, England hath the hemorrhoids, and these
On the north postern of the patient seize
Like leeches; thus they physically thirst
After our blood, but in the cure shall burst!
Questions and a Prayer For a New Born Baby
© Faye Diane Kilday
So, here you are once more - in a brand new perfect body;An old soul with a brand new life to explore.And my mind is filled with so many things I want to ask you,So many questions that I've forgotten the answers to.
I don't want to ask you about your future, because who canhonestly say what lessons the school called life will bringto you each day.
No, I want to ask you about the world you lived in beforecoming back here. Not your body of course, but your spirit my dear.
You see, it's been a long time since I was in Heaven last,Although I know that by Heaven's calender not much timeat all has passed.
