Poems begining by I
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It Is No Spirit Who From Heaven Hath Flown
© William Wordsworth
IT is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;
Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!
'Tis Hesperus--there he stands with glittering crown,
It Is You
© Paul Verlaine
It is you, it is you, poor better thoughts!
The needful hope, shame for the ancient blots,
If I Forget Thee, O Jerusalem
© Jean Ingelow
'Many,' methought, 'and rich
They must have been, so long their chronicle.
Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk,
For ships at sea are few that near us now.'
If The Advertising Man Had Been Praed, Or Locker
© Franklin Pierce Adams
"C'est distingue," says Madame La Mode.
Subtly distinctive as a fabric fair;
Nor Keats nor Shelley in his loftiest ode
Could thrum the line to tell how it will wear.
In Bonds
© George MacDonald
Of the poor bird that cannot fly
Kindly you think and mournfully;
For prisoners and for exiles all
You let the tears of pity fall;
And very true the grief should be
That mourns the bondage of the free.
Invocation
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old,
Formless and void the dead earth rolled;
Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind
To the great lights which o'er it shined;
No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath,--
A dumb despair, a wandering death.
Invective Against Swans
© Wallace Stevens
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
Improvisation
© Boris Pasternak
I fed out of my hand a flock of keys
To clapping of wings and shrill cries in flight.
Italian Myrtles
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
By many a soft Ligurian bay
The myrtles glisten green and bright,
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night,
And yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
In After Days
© Henry Austin Dobson
IN after days when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honour'd dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
Inscription
© Charlotte Turner Smith
On a Stone, in the Church-Yard at Boreham, in
Essex; raised by the Honourable Elizabeth Olmius,
to the memory of Ann Gardner, who died at New
Hall, after a faithful Service of Forty Years.
I learnedat leastwhat Home could be
© Emily Dickinson
I learnedat leastwhat Home could be
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant
How awkward at the Hymn
Iron Wine
© Lola Ridge
The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,
Intimations of Mortality
© Phyllis McGinley
Indeed, it will soon be over, I shall be done
With the querulous drill, the forceps, the clove-smelling cotton.
I can go forth into fresher air, into sun,
This narrow anguish forgotten.
"If I had six white horses"
© Lesbia Harford
If I had six white horses
And six sturdy friends,
I'd sell them into slavery,
If that would gain your ends.
Italy : 49. The Feluca
© Samuel Rogers
Day glimmered; and beyond the precipice
(Which my mule followed as in love with fear,
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
In The Cathedral
© Edward Dowden
THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume
Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer
In Verona.
© Robert Crawford
Juliet will never rise
In her passion's paradise;
Dust is in her ears and eyes.
And time too, as all men know,
"In this little school"
© Lesbia Harford
In this little school
Life goes so sweetly,
Day on azure day
Is lost completely.
