Poems begining by I
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II. The Pauper Witch of Grafton
© Robert Frost
Now that they've got it settled whose I be,
I'm going to tell them something they won't like:
They've got it settled wrong, and I can prove it.
Flattered I must be to have two towns fighting
Il Pleure dans mon Coeur
© Paul Verlaine
Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville.
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénêtre mon coeur ?
In a Vale
© Robert Frost
WHEN I was young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a window light.
I. The Witch of Coös
© Robert Frost
I stayed the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountains, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.
"In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design
© Robert Frost
What had that flower to do with being white,
The blue prunella every child's delight.
What brought the kindred spider to that height?
(Make we no thesis of the miller's plight.)
What but design of darkness and of night?
Design, design! Do I use the word aright?
It Was Upon
© Edward Thomas
And as an unaccomplished prophecy
The stranger's words, after the interval
Of a score years, when those fields are by me
Never to be recrossed, now I recall,
This July eve, and question, wondering,
What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring?
In Neglect
© Robert Frost
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With michievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
I Will Sing You One-O
© Robert Frost
It was long I lay
Awake that night
Wishing that night
Would name the hour
Immigrants
© Robert Frost
No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore.
In Hardwood Groves
© Robert Frost
The same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.
If I Were Santa Claus
© Edgar Albert Guest
IF only I were Santa Claus I 'd travel east and west
To every hovel where there lies a little child at rest;
In a Disused Graveyard
© Robert Frost
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
In Morte Del Fratello Giovanni
© Ugo Foscolo
Un dí, s'io non andrò sempre fuggendo
Di gente in gente, me vedrai seduto
Su la tua pietra, o fratel mio, gemendo
Il fior de' tuoi gentili anni caduto.
Into My Own
© Robert Frost
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto th eedge of doom.
Invita Minerva
© James Russell Lowell
The Bardling came where by a river grew
The pennoned reeds, that, as the west-wind blew,
Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they knew
What music slept enchanted in each stem,
Till Pan should choose some happy one of them,
And with wise lips enlife it through and through.
III: Rouge Et Noir
© Emily Dickinson
Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed
But tens have won an all
In the Trenches
© Isaac Rosenberg
I snatched two poppies
From the parapets ledge,
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
In The Churchyard At Tarrytown
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
In this World
© Wendell Berry
The hill pasture, an open place among the trees,
tilts into the valley. The clovers and tall grasses
are in bloom. Along the foot of the hill
dark floodwater moves down the river.
In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. Williams
© Wendell Berry
The poem is important, but
not more than the people
whose survival it serves,
