Poems begining by I
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In The House Of Idiedaily
© Bliss William Carman
OH, but life went gaily, gaily,
In the house of Idiedaily!
In the Wood
© Boris Pasternak
Blurred by a lilac heat, the meadows:
in the wood, cathedral shadows swirled.
In October
© Archibald Lampman
Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,
Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar
Italy : 12. Italy
© Samuel Rogers
Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona?
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?
"In the stump of the old tree..."
© Hugh Sykes Davies
In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man's arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man's arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because
I Do But Ask That You Be Always Fair
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
I do but ask that you be always fair
That I forever may continue kind;
In The "Old South"
© John Greenleaf Whittier
She came and stood in the Old South Church,
A wonder and a sign,
With a look the old-time sibyls wore,
Half-crazed and half-divine.
I Am With Terrorism
© Nizar Qabbani
We are accused of terrorism:
if we wrote about the ruins of a homeland
torn, weak...
a homeland with no address
and an nation with no names
In The Mission Garden
© Francis Bret Harte
I speak not the English well, but Pachita,
She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?
Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger
Americano.
I Chide Not At The Seasons
© Alfred Austin
I chide not at the seasons, for if Spring
With backward look refuses to be fair,
I Love The Tsarskoselsky Gardens
© Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
I love the Tsarskoselsky Gardens
Late in the fall when, in soft haze
Im Out O Door
© William Barnes
I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast,
The zun, a-runnèn lowly round,
In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
© Robert Burns
The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retired to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
Intoxication
© Boris Pasternak
Under osiers with ivy ingrown
We are trying to hide from bad weather.
I am clasping your arms in my own,
In one cloak we are huddled together.
Inscription For A Hermitage In The Author's Garden
© William Cowper
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to--the last retreat.
If
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day,
O, what a day to-day would be!
But now he's away, miles and miles away
From me across the sea.
Improvisation On An Old Song
© Duncan Campbell Scott
Growing, growing, all the glory going;
Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk,
All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk--
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
I Know A Baby, Such A Baby
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I know a baby, such a baby, -
Round blue eyes and cheeks of pink,
