Poems begining by I
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It Came With The Threat Of A Waning Moon
© William Ernest Henley
It came with the threat of a waning moon
And the wail of an ebbing tide,
I think to Livemay be a Bliss
© Emily Dickinson
I think to Livemay be a Bliss
To those who dare to try
Beyond my limit to conceive
My lipto testify
Idyl
© Emma Lazarus
The swallows made twitter incessant,
The thrushes were wild with their mirth.
The ways and the woods were made pleasant,
And the flowering nooks of the earth.
Isabel
© Charles Stuart Calverley
Now o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades,
And the shut lily cradles not the bee;
The red deer couches in the forest glades,
And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:
Interior
© William Ernest Henley
The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas by Steve Orlen: American Life in Poetry #143 Ted Kooser, U
© Ted Kooser
Here is Arizona poet Steve Orlen's lovely tribute to the great opera singer, Maria Callas. Most of us never saw her perform, or even knew what she looked like, but many of us listened to her on the radio or on our parents' record players, perhaps in a parlor like the one in this poem.
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
I Tell My Heart
© Margaret Widdemer
I TELL my heart, to hush her aching
When we are sleeping, when we're waking,
Of things we loved well, she and I,
Upon a time that is gone by:
In Memory Of John Butler Yeats
© Padraic Colum
"TO-NIGHT," you said, "to-night, all Ireland round
The curlews call." The dinner-talk went on,
And I knew what you heard and what you saw,
That left you for a little while withdrawn-
The lonely land, the lonely-crying birds!
If Amy Lowell Had Been James Whitcomb Riley
© Franklin Pierce Adams
When you came you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread-
Smooth and pleasant,
I hardly taste you at all, for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.
In The Years Of Sarsfield
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains,
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen;
I've Thirty Months
© John Millington Synge
I've thirty months, and that's my pride,
Before my age's a double score,
Italy : 9. The Alps
© Samuel Rogers
Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable;
Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,
I Am Leaving Alexandria
© Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Ah, I am leaving Alexandria
and will not see it for a long time!
I Was Not He
© Thomas Hardy
I was not he-the man
Who used to pilgrim to your gate,
At whose smart step you grew elate,
And rosed, as maidens can,
For a brief span.
I am Not Alone
© Gabriela Mistral
The night, it is deserted
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!
It's There, Still There
© Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
It's there, still there, a past love's madness,
Dull pain and longing my heart fill.
Italy : 51. Marco Griffoni
© Samuel Rogers
War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or
later, play they how they will; yet every nation has
delighted in war, and none more in their day than the
little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had
