Poems begining by I

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"I dream of hunchbacked Tiflis"

© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam

I dream of hunchbacked Tiflis,
Where a Sazandar's groan resounds
The people cluster on the bridge,
The crowd carpets the whole capital,
While below, the Kuramurmurs.

Investment Policy

© Piet Hein

Anxieties yield
at a negative rate,
increasing in smallness
the longer they wait.

In Answer

© Wang Wei

In these quiet years growing calmer,

Lacking knowledge of the worlds affairs,

I Write About The Butterfly

© Louisa May Alcott

"I write about the butterfly,
It is a pretty thing;
And flies about like the birds,
But it does not sing.

Immutable

© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

AUTUMN to winter, winter into spring,
Spring into summer, summer into fall,--
So rolls the changing year, and so we change;
Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

Inscription 06 - For A Monument In The New Forest

© Robert Southey

This is the place where William's kingly power

Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,

In Lesbiam Cat. Ep. 76.

© Richard Lovelace

Huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa,
Atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo.
Ut jam nec bene velle queam tibi, si optima sias:
Nec desistere amare, omnia si facias.

I Like You And I Love You

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face;
The path was narrow, and they could not pass.
I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas!
And so they halted for a little space.

Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.

© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam

Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.

In the Depths of a Forest

© Henry Kendall

Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan
Go fitfully over the branches so dreary;
And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone,
And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.

Italy : 30. Rome

© Samuel Rogers

I am in Rome! Oft as the morning-ray
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry,
Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?
And from within a thrilling voice replies,

In A Churchyard

© George MacDonald

There may be seeming calm above, but no!-

There is a pulse below which ceases not,

In Memory

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Home from the wounds of Earth and wasting Time
The marvel of her beauty and morning prime
She has taken, glorious with the dew of youth
Still on her thoughts, those thoughts that from her eyes

Goldsmith wrote Deserted Village,
Now again reduced to tillage;
Once happiest village of the plain,
Place now you look for it in vain;
There but one man he doth make rich,
And hundreds struggle in the ditch;

In Carissimam Memoriam A.S.P.

To whom but thee, my youth to dedicate,
My youth, which these few leaves have sought to save,
Should I now come, although I come too late,
Alas! and can but lay them on thy grave?