Poems begining by I
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Inscriptions: VII: The Wood Nymph
© Mark Akenside
Approach in silence. 'tis no vulgar tale
Which I, the Dryad of this hoary oak,
In Memoriam~ -- Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse
© Henry Kendall
The grand, authentic songs that roll
Across grey widths of wild-faced sea,
The lordly anthems of the Pole,
Are loud upon the lea.
In Uncertainty To A Lady
© Aldous Huxley
I am not one of those who sip,
Like a quotidian bock,
Cheap idylls from a languid lip
Prepared to yawn or mock.
Ich Glaub Nicht An Den Himmel
© Heinrich Heine
I dont believe in Heaven,
Whose peace the preacher cites:
I Mustn't Forget
© Edgar Albert Guest
I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old,
That's the worst thing ever a man can do.
Imitation Of Lines Written By Roucher,
© Helen Maria Williams
BELOW HIS PICTURE, WHICH
A FELLOW-PRISONER HAD DRAWN, AND WHICH
In the Armenian Mountains
© Hovhannes Toumanian
The way was heavy and the night was dark,
And yet we survived
Both sorrow and gloom.
Through the ages we go and gaze at the stark
Steep heights of our land-
The Armenian Highlands.
I Hear an Army
© James Joyce
I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.
Illa Creek
© Henry Kendall
A strong sea-wind flies up and sings
Across the blown-wet border,
Whose stormy echo runs and rings
Like bells in wild disorder.
I Have A Little Husband
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I have a little husband
And he is gone to sea,
It's a Boy
© Edgar Albert Guest
The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death;
Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath;
He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun,
His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done.
And yet the doctor seems to be God's messenger of joy,
Appointed to announce this news of gladness: "It's a boy!"
Introito
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
Eramos aturdidos mozalbetes:
Blanco listón al codo, ayes agónicos,
Rimas atolondradas y juguetes.
I Found A Few Old Letters
© Rabindranath Tagore
XIV
I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in thy boxa few small toys for thy memory to play with. With a timorous heart thou didst try to steal these trifles from the turbulent stream of time which washes away planets and stars, and didst say, These are only mine! Alas, there is no one now who can claim themwho is able to pay their price; yet they are still here. Is there no love in this world to rescue thee from utter loss, even like this love of thine that saved these letters with such fond care?
O woman, thou camest for a moment to my side and touched me with the great mystery of the woman that there is in the heart of creationshe who ever gives back to God his own outflow of sweetness; who is the eternal love and beauty and youth; who dances in bubbling streams and sings in the morning light; who with heaving waves suckles the thirsty earth and whose mercy melts in rain; in whom the eternal one breaks in two in joy that can contain itself no more and overflows in the pain of love.
In A Swedish Graveyard
© Emma Lazarus
After wearisome toil and much sorrow,
How quietly sleep they at last,
I live with HimI see His face
© Emily Dickinson
I live with HimI see His face
I go no more away
For Visitoror Sundown
Death's single privacy
In Laleham Churchyard
© William Watson
'Twas at this season, year by year,
The singer who lies songless here
Was wont to woo a less austere,
Less deep repose,
Where Rotha to Winandermere
Unresting flows,-
