Poems begining by L
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Lord Finchley
© Hilaire Belloc
Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light
Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!
It is the business of the wealthy man
To give employment to the artisan.
Lord Lundy
© Hilaire Belloc
Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career Lord Lundy from his earliest years
Was far too freely moved to Tears.
For instance if his Mother said,
"Lundy! It's time to go to Bed!"
Lines to a Don
© Hilaire Belloc
Remote and ineffectual Don
That dared attack my Chesterton,
With that poor weapon, half-impelled,
Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,
L'Envoy of Chaucer to Bukton
© Geoffrey Chaucer
My Master Bukton, when of Christ our King
Was asked, What is truth or soothfastness?
Limerick: There was an Old Person of Leeds
© Edward Lear
There was an Old Person of Leeds,
Whose head was infested with beads;
She sat on a stool,
And ate gooseberry fool,
Which agreed with that person of Leeds.
Lord May I Come?
© Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal
Life and night are falling from me,
Death and day are opening on me,
Wherever my footsteps come and go,
Life is a stony way of woe.
Lord, have I long to go?
Lux, My Fair Falcon
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
Lux, my fair falcon, and your fellows all,
How well pleasant it were your liberty.
Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall,
But they that sometime liked my company,
LXXXIV From: Cien sonetos de amor
© Pablo Neruda
One time more, my love, the net of light extinguishes
work, wheels, flames, boredoms and farewells,
and we surrender the swaying wheat to night,
the wheat that noon stole from earth and light.
Little World
© Marina Tsvetaeva
Children - are staring of eyes so frightful,
Mischievous legs on a wooden floor,
Children - is sun in the gloomy motives,
Hypotheses' of happy sciences world.
Lines On Reading Too Many Poets
© Dorothy Parker
Roses, rooted warm in earth,
Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Die; and so their song shall keep.
Liaison
© David Herbert Lawrence
A big bud of moon hangs out of the twilight,
Star-spiders spinning their thread
Hang high suspended, withouten respite
Watching us overhead.
La petite marchande de fleurs
© François Coppée
Elle nous proposa ses fleurs d'une voix douce,
Et souriant avec ce sourire qui tousse.
Et c'était monstrueux, cette enfant de sept ans
Qui mourait de l'hiver en offrant le printemps.
Lotus Hurt by the Cold
© David Herbert Lawrence
How many times, like lotus lilies risen
Upon the surface of a river, there
Have risen floating on my blood the rare
Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.
Last Words to Miriam
© David Herbert Lawrence
Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.
Limerick: There was an Old Man of the Wrekin
© Edward Lear
There was an Old Man of the Wrekin
Whose shoes made a horrible creaking
But they said, 'Tell us whether,
Your shoes are of leather,
Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?'
Life Rounded With Sleep
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
The babe is at peace within the womb;
The corpse is at rest within the tomb:
We begin in what we end.
Listening
© David Herbert Lawrence
I listen to the stillness of you,
My dear, among it all;
I feel your silence touch my words as I talk,
And take them in thrall.
Lui Et Elle
© David Herbert Lawrence
She is large and matronly
And rather dirty,
A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had driven her to it.
Though what she does, except lay four eggs at random in the garden once a year
And put up with her husband,
I don't know.
