Poems begining by I
/ page 5 of 145 /
In Flanders Fields
© John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.
Injun Summah
© Benjamin Franklin King
De Injun summah's comin',De bees is all froo hummin',De watah-mellon thumbin' Has passed long time ago
If I should die
© Benjamin Franklin King
If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay -- If I should die to-night,And you should come in deepest grief and woe -- And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe," I might arise in my large white cravat And say, "What's that?"
If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-nightAnd you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten, I might arise the while, But I'd drop dead again
It's a Long Way to Tipperary
© Judge Jack
Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,As the streets are paved with gold, sure ev'ryone was gay;Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and Leicester Square,Till Paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:
[Chorus] It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square, It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there! Paddy wrote a letter to his Irish Molly O', Saying, "Should you not receive it, write and let me know!""If I make mistakes in 'spelling,' Molly, dear," said he,"Remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me
In Darkness
© Hyde Robin
Lying awake in the darkI have suddenly thought(At the clasp of unseen fingers under my head),"God is no moreThan any apple-bough, then,Where the birds of the air have nest --Than the little, hardly-soughtHome of the field-mouse, high in the tawny grain,Where the spoiler looks in vain;Than the lowly earthen doorWhere the vixen runs to hide, as the bold hunt passesIn flurry of blood-red music and blood-crazed men;Than the bending meadow grassesUnder the breast of the lark
Imperial Adam
© Alec Derwent Hope
Imperial Adam, naked in the dew,Felt his brown flanks and found the rib was gone.Puzzled he turned and saw where, two and two,The mighty spoor of Jahweh marked the lawn.
If Love now Reigned as it hath been
© Henry VIII, King of England
If love now reigned as it hath beenAnd were rewarded as it hath sin,
I. M. R.T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899) [Invictus]
© William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
Into Battle
© Grenfell Julian
The naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting treesLeans to the sun's gaze glorying,And quivers in the sunny breeze;And life is Colour and Warmth and Light,And a striving evermore for these;And he is dead who will not fight,And who dies fighting has increase
I Would Fain Die a Dry Death
© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins
The American public is patient, The American public is slow,The American public will stand as much As any public I know
III Mon. May [1734] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
Wedlock, as old Men note, hath likened been,Unto a publick Crowd or common Rout;Where those that are without would fain get in,And those that are within would fain get out
In Defiance of Fortune
© Elizabeth I
Never think you fortune can bear the swayWhere virtue's force can cause her to obey.
Idea: To the Reader of these Sonnets
© Michael Drayton
Into these loves, who but for passion looks,At this first sight here let him lay them byAnd seek elsewhere in turning other books,Which better may his labour satisfy
Idea XXXI
© Michael Drayton
Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeerAnd tax my muse with this fantastic grace,Turning my papers, asks "what have we here?"Making withall some filthy antic face
Idea VI
© Michael Drayton
How many paltry, foolish, painted things,That now in coaches trouble every street,Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,Ere they be well wrapp'd in their winding-sheet?Where I to thee eternity shall give,When nothing else remaineth of these days,And queens hereafter shall be glad to liveUpon the alms of thy superfluous praise
