Poems begining by I
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In The Shadow Of The Beeches
© Madison Julius Cawein
In the shadow of the beeches,
Where the fragile wildflowers bloom;
Impressions De Nuit London
© Lord Alfred Douglas
That's the great town at night : I see her breasts,
Pricked out with lamps they stand like huge black towers.
I think they move ! I hear her panting breath.
And that's her head where the tiara rests.
And in her brain, through lanes as dark as death,
Men creep like thoughts . . . The lamps are like pale flowers.
I, Too, Sing America
© Langston Hughes
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
In May
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Oh to have you in May,
To talk with you under the trees,
Dreaming throughout the day,
Drinking the wine-like breeze,
Is/Not
© Margaret Atwood
Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwisesex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavitiesyou are not my doctor
you are not my cure,nobody has that
In The Secular Night
© Margaret Atwood
In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
In Thankful Remembrance for My Dear Husband's Safe Arrival
© Anne Bradstreet
What shall I render to Thy name
Or how Thy praises speak?
My thanks how shall I testify?
O Lord, Thou know'st I'm weak.
In Reference to Her Children
© Anne Bradstreet
I had eight birds hatched in one nest,
Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.
I nursed them up with pain and care,
Nor cost, nor labour did I spare,
In My Solitary Hours in My Dear Husband his Absence
© Anne Bradstreet
O Lord, Thou hear'st my daily moan
And see'st my dropping tears.
My troubles all are Thee before,
My longings and my fears.
In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen ELIZABETH
© Anne Bradstreet
3.1 Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed
3.2 O' th' Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
3.3 Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,
3.4 This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:
3.5 On neither tree did grow such Rose before,
3.6 The greater was our gain, our loss the more.
In The Lane
© Madison Julius Cawein
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,
And the brown bee drones i' the rose;
And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock,
And summer is near its close-
It's oh, for the gate and the locust lane,
And dusk and dew and home again!
In Childhood
© Kimiko Hahn
things don't die or remain damaged
but return: stumps grow back hands,
a head reconnects to a neck,
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Imagining Defeat
© David Berman
She woke me up at dawn,
her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels.I sat up and looked out the window
at the snow falling in the stand of blackjack trees.A bus ticket in her hand.Then she brought something black up to her mouth,
a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler.I reached under the bed for my menthols
In The City Of Slaughter (excerpt)
© Hayyim Nahman Bialik
Proceed thence to the ruins, the split walls reach,
Where wider grows the hollow, and greater grows the breach;
Pass over the shattered hearth, attain the broken wall
Whose burnt and barren brick, whose charred stones reveal
The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending
Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal
I Was Sick And In Prison
© Jones Very
Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow
Without a mate upon the river's bank;
Iii. The Pariah's Thanks.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
MIGHTY Brama, now I'll bless thee!'Tis from thee that worlds proceed!
As my ruler I confess thee,For of all thou takest heed.All thy thousand ears thou keepestOpen to each child of earth;
We, 'mongst mortals sunk the deepest,Have from thee received new birth.Bear in mind the woman's story,Who, through grief, divine became;
Now I'll wait to view His glory,Who omnipotence can claim. 1821.
Is The Moon Tired? She Looks So Pale
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Is the moon tired? she looks so pale
Within her misty veil:
I. The Pariah's Prayer
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
DREADED Brama, lord of might!All proceed from thee alone;
Thou art he who judgeth right!Dost thou none but Brahmins own?
Do but Rajahs come from thee?None but those of high estate?Didst not thou the ape create,
Aye, and even such as we?We are not of noble kind,For with woe our lot is rife;
