Hope poems

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439

A Poem For The Birth-Day Of The Right Honble The Lady Catharine Tufton

© Anne Kingsmill Finch

'Tis fit SERENA shou'd be sung.

High-born SERENA, Fair and Young,

To the Cuckoo

© André Breton

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

Twenty-third

© Christina Pugh

And at the picnic table under the ancient elms,

one of my parents turned to me and said:

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

© Edward Estlin Cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood

or truth can live with right and wrong

Lines on Locks (or Jail and the Erie Canal)

The Messenger

© Hugo Williams

The messenger runs, not carrying the news

of victory, or defeat; the messenger, unresting,

On a Girdle

© Edmund Waller

That which her slender waist confind,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

To Miss Jessie Lewars

© Robert Burns

The sun lies clasped in amber cloud
Half hidden in the sea,
And o'er the sands the flowing tide
Comes racing merrilee.

Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth,
Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man,
The whole world's tangle gathered in one span,
Full of this human torture and this mirth:
Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss,
Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is.

Dean Stanley

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

DEAD! dead! in sooth his marbled brow is cold,
And prostrate lies that brave, majestic head;
True! his stilled features own death's arctic mould,
Yet, by Christ's blood, I know he is not dead!

Bantry Bay

© John Clare

On the eighteenth of October we lay in Bantry Bay,

All ready to set sail, with a fresh and steady gale:

“Actuarial File”

© Jean Valentine

Orange peels, burned letters, the car lights shining on the grass,
everything goes somewhere—and everything we do—nothing
ever disappears. But changes. The roar of the sun in photographs.
Inching shorelines. Ice lines. The cells of our skin; our meetings,
our solitudes. Our eyes.

The Winding Banks Of Erne

© William Allingham

Adieu to Belashanny!

where I was bred and born;

Little Air

Any solitude
Without a swan or quai
Mirrors its disuse
In the look I abdicate

Memorandum

Save these words for a while because
of something they remind you of
although you cannot remember
what that is a sense that is part
dust and part the light of morning

Acon and Rhodope; or, Inconstancy

First of those
Who visited upon this solemn day
The Hamadryad’s oak, were Rhodope
And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trust.
Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
She sorrowed for: he slender, pale, and first

A Broken Prayer

I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light;
1 cannot round myself; my purest thought,
Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth,
And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will.