Poems begining by I
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Irám indeed is gone
© Omar Khayyám
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows:
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
I Hardly Remember
© Robert Graves
I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you
floats in some remote current of my blood.
I carry you in my depths, trapped in the sludge
like one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.
In The Back of the Real
© Allen Ginsberg
railroad yard in San Jose
I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.
Idea XXXVII: Dear, why should you command me to my rest
© Michael Drayton
Dear, why should you command me to my rest
When now the night doth summon all to sleep?
Idea XX: An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still
© Michael Drayton
An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possess'd,
Introductory Rhymes
© William Butler Yeats
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remainSomewhere in ear-shot for the story's end,Old Dublin merchant 'free of ten and four'Or trading out of Galway into Spain;And country scholar, Robert Emmet's friend,A hundred-year-old memory to the poor;Traders or soldiers who have left me bloodThat has not passed through any huxter's loin,Pardon, and you that did not weigh the cost,Old Butlers when you took to horse and stoodBeside the brackish waters of the BoyneTill your bad master blenched and all was lost;You merchant skipper that leaped overboardAfter a ragged hat in Biscay Bay,You most of all, silent and fierce old manBecause you were the spectacle that stirredMy fancy, and set my boyish lips to say'Only the wastful virtues earn the sun';Pardon that for a barren passion's sake,Although I have come close on forty-nineI have no child, I have nothing but a book,Nothing but that to prove your blood and mine
In the Ball-room
© Wratislaw Theodore William Graf
Here where the swaying dancers float,The heady perfume swimming roundYour slender arms and virginal throatThrills me though riper loves abound.
It is not to be Thought of
© William Wordsworth
It is not to be thought of that the FloodOf British freedom, which, to the open seaOf the world's praise, from dark antiquityHath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"Roused though it be full often to a moodWhich spurns the check of salutary bands,That this most famous Stream in bogs and sandsShould perish; and to evil and to goodBe lost for ever
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free
© William Wordsworth
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquility;The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea;Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder--everlastingly
Influence of Natural Objects in Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth
© William Wordsworth
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!And giv'st to forms and images a breathAnd everlasting motion! not in vain,By day or star-light, thus from my first dawnOf childhood didst thou intertwine for meThe passions that build up our human soul;Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;But with high objects, with enduring things,With life and nature; purifying thusThe elements of feeling and of thought,And sanctifying by such disciplineBoth pain and fear,--until we recogniseA grandeur in the beatings of the heart
I. W. To her Unconstant Lover
© Isabella Whitney
As close as you your wedding kept, yet now the truth I hear,Which you (ere now) might me have told -- what need you nay to swear?
Intermittences
© Paul Verlaine
Il est des jours, il est des moisIl est jusques à des annéesOù, fui des Muses surannées,Déserté par toutes ses Fois,
Ibant Obscur?
© Edward Thomas
To-night I saw three maidens on the beach,
Dark-robed descending to the sea,
So slow, so silent of all speech,
And visible to me
Only by that strange drift-light, dim, forlorn,
Of the sun's wreck and clashing surges born.
I bended unto me a Bough
© Edward Thomas
I bended unto me a bough of May,
That I might see and smell:
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 6
© Alfred Tennyson
One writes, that "Other friends remain," That "Loss is common to the race"-- And common is the commonplace,And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 56
© Alfred Tennyson
"So careful of the type?" but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, "A thousand types are gone:I care for nothing, all shall go.
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 131
© Alfred Tennyson
O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock,Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII [all 133 poems]
© Alfred Tennyson
[Preface] Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace,Believing where we cannot prove;
III. The Dead
© Rupert Brooke
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
Inscriptions
© Tabb John Banister
The epitaph of nightThe sunbeams write;The epitaph of day,The shadows gray;One requiem of wind and waveAbove each grave.
