Life poems
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Song of the Sewing-Machine
© Morris George Pope
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day;Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue,Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do
Your Idea of Embracing Horror
© Moritz Albert Frank
Your idea of embracing horrorwas overwhelmed by the horror:
What Is Impossible
© Moritz Albert Frank
About the age of twenty, when the first hairfallsignals that nature is finished with the organismand we just begin to conceive the use of women(having been all this timemore enamored of the fountain than the cistern),we retire to nursing homes,whether they be kaleidoscopic gardensaimed like a blunderbuss of hermeticism at our neighbors,or a desperate dream safari through old Zambesi,where the suicidal waves of angry nativesgive the illusion that we are advancing rapidly,or the crow's-nest of this windless office blockwhere the cook is already boiling the last sail
Native Woman
© Moritz Albert Frank
Her hair back from the wide round faceflows, almost a girl's, so thick,caught back in combs, racingand curling through them with blackestvigor, although it is pure white
The Little Walls Before China
© Moritz Albert Frank
A courtier speaks to Ch'in Shih-huang-ti, ca. 210 B.C.
The Erotic Civilization
© Moritz Albert Frank
The infinite erotic civilization we createdis declining now. Breast and penis wag in publicas in primitive times, when nothing was erotic but the gods,
Life's Fate
© Julia A Moore
The world is filled with trouble; This world is filled with woe;We poor mortals can not shun it, Wherever we may go
The Virgin
© Harold Monro
Arms that have never held me; lips of himWho should have been for me; hair most beloved,I would have smoothed so gently; steadfast eyes,Half-closed, yet gazing at me through the dusk;And hands
Midnight Lamentation
© Harold Monro
When you and I go downBreathless and cold,Our faces both worn backTo earthly mould,How lonely we shall be!What shall we do,You without me,I without you?
The Earth for Sale
© Harold Monro
How perilous life will become on earthWhen the great breed of man has covered all
Bitter Sanctuary
© Harold Monro
Clients have left their photos there to perish.She watches through green shutters those who pressTo reach unconsciousness.
The Inquest
© Money-Coutts Francis Burdett
Not labour kills us; no, nor joy: The incredulity and frown,The interference and annoy, The small attritions wear us down.
Verses Wrote on her Death-Bed at Bath, to her Husband, in London
© Mary Monck
THOU, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy :Thou tend'rest husband, and thou best of friends,To thee this first, this last adieu I send
The Whiffenpoof Song
© Minnigerode Meade
To the tables down at Mory's,To the place where Louis dwells,To the dear old Temple Bar we love so well,Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled
Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)
© John Milton
PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad successThe Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope,So oft, and the perswasive RhetoricThat sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve,So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve,This far his over-match, who self deceiv'dAnd rash, before-hand had no better weigh'dThe strength he was to cope with, or his own:But as a man who had been matchless heldIn cunning, over-reach't where least he thought,To salve his credit, and for very spightStill will be tempting him who foyls him still,And never cease, though to his shame the more;Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd,Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;Or surging waves against a solid rock,Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew,Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end;So Satan, whom repulse upon repulseMet ever; and to shameful silence brought,Yet gives not o're though desperate of success,And his vain importunity pursues
Paradise Regain'd: Book III (1671)
© John Milton
SO spake the Son of God, and Satan stoodA while as mute confounded what to say,What to reply, confuted and convinc'tOf his weak arguing, and fallacious drift;At length collecting all his Serpent wiles,With soothing words renew'd, him thus accosts
Paradise Regain'd: Book II (1671)
© John Milton
MEan while the new-baptiz'd, who yet remain'dAt Jordan with the Baptist, and had seenHim whom they heard so late expresly call'dJesus Messiah Son of God declar'd,And on that high Authority had believ'd,And with him talkt, and with him lodg'd, I meanAndrew and Simon, famous after knownWith others though in Holy Writ not nam'd,Now missing him thir joy so lately found,So lately found, and so abruptly gone,Began to doubt, and doubted many days,And as the days increas'd, increas'd thir doubt:Sometimes they thought he might be only shewn,And for a time caught up to God, as onceMoses was in the Mount, and missing long;And the great Thisbite who on fiery wheelsRode up to Heaven, yet once again to come
Paradise Regain'd: Book I (1671)
© John Milton
I Who e're while the happy Garden sung,By one mans disobedience lost, now singRecover'd Paradise to all mankind,By one mans firm obedience fully tri'dThrough all temptation, and the Tempter foil'dIn all his wiles, defeated and repuls't,And Eden rais'd in the wast Wilderness
