Poems begining by I
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In the House of the Latin Professor
© Boris Pasternak
All things fall away: store fronts on the west,
ANGEL’S DELICATESSEN, windows boarded
and laced in day-glow, BLUE KNIGHT AUTO REPAIR
to the north with its verandah of rusted mufflers
Impromptu
© Alexander Pope
To Lady Winchelsea,
Occasioned by four Satirical Verses on Women Wits,
In The Rape of the Lock
I Close My Eyes
© David Ignatow
I close my eyes like a good little boy at night in bed,
as I was told to do by my mother when she lived,
and before bed I brush my teeth and slip on my pajamas,
as I was told, and look forward to tomorrow.
I Dreamed That I Was Old
© Stanley Kunitz
I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,
Before time took my leafy hours away.
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 72
© Alfred Tennyson
Who might'st have heaved a windless flame
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd
A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look'd the same.
I Cannot Pay That Premium
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Beside a frugal table, though spotless clean and white,
A loving couple they did sit and all seemed pleasant, quite;
They did not have no servant the things away to take,
For he was but a broker who much money did not make.
In Time
© Gerald Stern
As far as clocks—and it is time to think of them—
I have one on my kitchen shelf and it is
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 105
© Alfred Tennyson
To-night ungather'd let us leave
This laurel, let this holly stand:
We live within the stranger's land,
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.
Incorrect Speaking
© Charles Lamb
Incorrectness in your speech
Carefully avoid, my Anna;
Study well the sense of each
Sentence, lest in any manner
It misrepresent the truth;
Veracity's the charm of youth.
In Memory of a Child
© Roald Dahl
I
The angels guide him now,
And watch his curly head,
And lead him in their games,
The little boy we led.
If a Daughter you have
© Richard Brinsley Sheridan
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, tho' you've buried your wife,
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
In the Green Morning, Now, Once More
© Delmore Schwartz
In the green morning, before
Love was destiny,
The sun was king,
And God was famous.
If You Said You Would Come With Me
© John Ashbery
In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.”
Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away.”
“Yes . . . and then?” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood.
“Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr. . . .”
In The Tunnel
© Francis Bret Harte
Didn't know Flynn,--
Flynn of Virginia,--
Long as he's been 'yar?
Look 'ee here, stranger,
Whar HEV you been?
If? See No End In Is
© Frank Bidart
What none knows is when, not if.
Now that your life nears its end
when you turn back what you see
is ruin. You think, It is a prison. No,
it is a vast resonating chamber in
which each thing you say or do is
Impression Du Matin
© Oscar Wilde
THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
I Am an Atheist Who Says His Prayers
© Ishmael Reed
I am an atheist who says his prayers.
I am an anarchist, and a full professor at that. I take the loyalty oath.
