Life poems
/ page 211 of 844 /A Dialogue At Fiesole
© Alfred Austin
HE.
Halt here awhile. That mossy-cushioned seat
Is for your queenliness a natural throne;
As I am fitly couched on this low sward,
Here at your feet.
A Superscription
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that wing'd Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,--
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
Frank Little At Calvary
© Lola Ridge
Life thunders on…
Over the black bridge
The line of lighted cars
Creeps like a monstrous serpent
Spooring gold…
Today's News by David Tucker: American Life in Poetry #156 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
We greatly appreciate your newspaper's use of this column, and today we want to recognize newspaper employees by including a poem from the inside of a newsroom. David Tucker is deputy managing editor of the New Jersey âStar-Ledgerâ? and has been a reporter and editor at the âToronto Starâ? and the âPhiladelphia Inquirer.â? He was on the âStar-Ledgerâ? team that won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize for breaking news. Mr. Tucker was awarded a Witter-Bynner fellowship for poetry in 2007 by former U. S. Poet Laureate, Donald Hall.
Today's News
The Shepheardes Calender: May
© Edmund Spenser
May: AEgloga Quinta. Palinode & Piers.
Palinode.
IS not thilke the mery moneth of May,
When loue lads masken in fresh aray?
On Our Eleventh Anniversary by Susan Browne : American Life in Poetry #214 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet La
© Ted Kooser
Sometimes I wonder at my wife's forbearance. She's heard me tell the same stories dozens of times, and she still politely laughs when she should. Here's a poem by Susan Browne, of California, that treats an oft-told story with great tenderness.
On Our Eleventh Anniversary
You're telling that story again about your childhood,
First Sunday In Lent
© John Keble
"Angel of wrath! why linger in mid-air,
While the devoted city's cry
He Mourned His Master
© Henry Lawson
But soon their forms had vanished all,
And night came down the ranges faster,
And no one saw the shadows fall
Upon the dog that mourned his master.
All-Saints' Day (1868)
© Ada Cambridge
Never to weary more, nor suffer sorrow,-
Their strife all over, and their work all done:
At peace-and only waiting for the morrow;
Heaven's rest and rapture even now begun.
"What weeping, or what dewfall,"
© Torquato Tasso
What weeping, or what dewfall,
Whose then were those tears,
Song: Tis Not the Beam
© Joseph Rodman Drake
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Accolon Of Gaul: Part II
© Madison Julius Cawein
"She comes! her presence, like a moving song
Breathed soft of loveliest lips and lute-like tongue,
Sways all the gurgling forests from their rest:
I fancy where her rustling foot is pressed,
So faltering, love seems timid, but how strong
That darling love that flutters in her breast!
Natalias Resurrection: Sonnet XVIII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Nor were the rest astonished. Even he,
Natalia's lord, in all complacent grace
Looked on approving of her act when she
Stepped forward with her face to Adrian's face,
Boy O' Mine
© Edgar Albert Guest
"Boy o' mine, boy o' mine, this is my prayer for you,
This is my dream and my thought and my care for you:
Strong be the spirit which dwells in the breast of you,
Never may folly or shame get the best of you;
You shall be tempted in fancied security,
But make no choice that is stained with impurity.
Two Easter Stanzas
© Vachel Lindsay
Though better men may fear that trumpets warning,
I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning,
With golden hope my spirit still adorning.
To The P.R.B.
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Woolner and Stephens, Collinson, Millais,
And my first brother, each and every one,
So they begin. With two years gone...
© Boris Pasternak
So they begin. With two years gone
From nurse to countless tunes they scuttle.
They chirp and whistle. Then comes on
The third year, and they start to prattle.
Vignettes Overseas
© Sara Teasdale
I. Off Gilbatrar
BEYOND the sleepy hills of Spain,
The sun goes down in yellow mist,
The sky is fresh with dewy stars
Bayard Taylor (Upon Death)
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
"OFT have I fronted Death, nor feared his might!
To me immortal, this dim Finite seems
Like some waste low-land, crossed by wandering streams
Whose clouded waves scarce catch our yearning sight: