Life poems

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The Magyar's New-Year-Eve

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

By Temèsvar I hear the clarions call:
The year dies. Let it die. It lived in vain.
Gun booms to gun along the looming wall,
Another year advances o'er the plain.
The Despot hails it from his bannered keep:
Ah, Tyrant, is it well to break a bondsman's sleep?

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Causerie

© Allen Tate

. . . party on the stage of the Earl Carroll Theatre on
Feb. 23. At this party Joyce Hawley, a chorus-girl,
bathed in the nude in a bathtub filled with alleged
wine. New York Times.

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Song. Sorrow

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

To me this world's a dreary blank,
All hopes in life are gone and fled,
My high strung energies are sank,
And all my blissful hopes lie dead.--

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Consolation

© Robert Louis Stevenson

Though he, that ever kind and true,


Kept stoutly step by step with you,

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Trilogy Of Passion 01 To Werther

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view;
Fate bade thee go,-to linger here was mine,-
Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.

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Upon A Branch Of Flowering Acacia

© Frances Anne Kemble

The blossoms hang again upon the tree,

  As when with their sweet breath they greeted me

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What I Have Seen #3

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I saw two youths: both were fair in the face,
They had set out foot to foot in life's race;
But one said to the other, "I say now, my brother,
You are going a little too slow;
The world will look on, and say, 'See Josy John,'
We must put on more style, now, you know."

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Killing Him: A Radio Play

© John Wesley

LISTEN TO THE RADIO PLAY
JOE, a doctoral candidate in literature
RACHEL, his fiancée
POET/CRITIC

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The Child Of The Islands - Autumn

© Caroline Norton

I.
BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand
Binding the Harvest in a thousand sheaves:
A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,

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Don’t Tell Anyone

© Tony Hoagland

We had been married for six or seven years
when my wife, standing in the kitchen one afternoon, told me
that she screams underwater when she swims—

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The Newspaper Man

© Edgar Albert Guest

Bit of a priest and a bit of sailor,

Bit of a doctor and bit of a tailor,

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Revolution

© Anne Waldman

Spooky summer on the horizon I’m gazing at

from my window into the streets

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To The Daisy

© William Wordsworth

IN youth from rock to rock I went

From hill to hill in discontent

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To His Lady

© Giacomo Leopardi

Beloved beauty who inspires

love in me from afar, your face obscured 

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Italy : 10. Como

© Samuel Rogers

I love to sail along the Larian Lake
Under the shore -- though not to visit Pliny,
To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,
Or fishing, as he might be, from his window:

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My Lady Of Verne

© Madison Julius Cawein

It all comes back as the end draws near;
  All comes back like a tale of old!
  Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?
  You, with your face so stern and cold;
  You, who have found me dying here ...

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Imitations of Horace

© Alexander Pope

While you, great patron of mankind, sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

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For C.

© Lola Ridge

After the clash of elevator gates
And the long sinking, she emerges where,
A slight thing in the morning’s crosstown glare, 
She looks up toward the window where he waits, 
Then in a fleeting taxi joins the rest
Of the huge traffic bound forever west.

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Genie

© Arthur Rimbaud

He is affection and the present since he opened the house to foaming winter and the hum of summer, he who purified drink and food, he who is the charm of fleeting places and the superhuman deliciousness of staying still. He is affection and the future, strength and love that we, standing amid rage and troubles, see passing in the storm-rent sky and on banners of ecstasy.
  He is love, perfect and reinvented measurement, wonderful and unforeseen reason, and eternity: machine beloved for its fatal qualities. We have all experienced the terror of his yielding and of our own: O enjoyment of our health, surge of our faculties, egoistic affection and passion for him, he who loves us for his infinite life
  And we remember him and he travels. . . And if the Adoration goes away, resounds, its promise resounds: “Away with those superstitions, those old bodies, those couples and those ages. It’s this age that has sunk!”
  He won’t go away, nor descend from a heaven again, he won’t accomplish the redemption of women’s anger and the gaiety of men and of all that sin: for it is now accomplished, with him being, and being loved.

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Our Valley

© Philip Levine

We don't see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August

when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay