Life poems
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Fragment
© Anne Kingsmill Finch
SO here confin'd, and but to female Clay,
ARDELIA's Soul mistook the rightful Way:
A Song Against Love
© Arthur Symons
There is a thing in the world that has been since the world began:
The hatred of man for woman, the hatred of woman for man.
When shall this thing be ended? When love ends, hatred ends.
For love is a chain between foes and love is a sword between friends.
Shall there never be love without hatred? Not since the world began,
Until man teach honour to woman, and woman teach pity to man,
Glucose Self-Monitoring by Katy Giebenhain: American Life in Poetry #33 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laurea
© Ted Kooser
Katy Giebenhain, an American living in Berlin, Germany, depicts a ritual that many diabetics undergo several times per day: testing one’s blood sugar. The poet shows us new ways of looking at what can be an uncomfortable chore by comparing it to other things: tapping trees for syrup, checking oil levels in a car, milking a cow.
A Woman's Last Song. - From an Unpublished Romance
© Alaric Alexander Watts
'Tis now that softening hour
When love hath deepest power,
The Vigil Of Venus
© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Tunc liquore de superno spumeo et ponti globo,
Cærulas inter catervas, inter et bipedes equos,
Fecit undantem Dionen de maritis imbribus.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quiqiie amavit cras amet.
The Blind Girl Of Castel-Cuille. (From The Gascon of Jasmin)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
At the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castel Cuille,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
Little Brown Bird
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
O LITTLE brown bird in the rain,
In the sweet rain of spring,
Epitaph, Intended For Himself
© James Beattie
Escaped the gloom of mortal life, a soul
Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay,
Safe where no cares their whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Pereunt Et Imputantur
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Bernard, if to you and me
Fortune all at once should give
Years to spend secure and free,
With the choice of how to live,
Tell me, what should we proclaim
Life deserving of the name?
The Annunciation And Passion
© John Donne
TAMELY, frail body, abstain to-day ; to-day
My soul eats twice, Christ hither and away.
Prologue To Faulkener
© Charles Lamb
The genius who conceived that magic tale
Was skilled by native pathos to prevail.
His stories, though rough-drawn and framed in haste,
Had that which pleased our homely grandsires' taste.
A Dream
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Pippa Passes: Part III: Evening
© Robert Browning
Mother
If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing
The utmost heaviness of music's heart.
The Death-Raven (From The Danish Of Oehlenslaeger)
© George Borrow
"The wealthy bird came towering,
Came scowering,
O'er hill and stream.
'Look here, look here, thou needy bird,
How gay my feathers gleam.'
Uncertainty
© Adam Mickiewicz
While I don't see you, I don't shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you're near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There's something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
The Summer Girl
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
She's the jauntiest of creatures, she's the daintiest of misses,
With her pretty patent leathers or her alligator ties,
With her eyes inviting glances and her lips inviting kisses,
As she wanders by the ocean or strolls under country skies.
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
If I have since done evil in my life,
I was not born for evil. This I know.
My soul was a thing pure from sensual strife.
No vice of the blood foredoomed me to this woe.
A Letter Sent To Mrs. Barber
© Mary Barber
Thou glorious Ruler of the beauteous Day!
Have sev'nteen Years so swiftly roll'd away?
Hast thou so oft the heav'nly Circle run,
When scarce I thought thy radiant Course begun?
An Ode - In Imitation of Horace, Book III. Ode II.
© Matthew Prior
How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose
