Life poems

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Sonnet XI: And Therefore If to Love

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And therefore if to love can be desert,

I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee . . .
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is very comfy with Thee.

Greatest of beings! Source of life!

© George Dyer

Greatest of beings! Source of life!
Sovereign of air, and earth, and sea!
All nature feels thy power, and all
A silent homage pays to Thee.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto III.

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

And said I that my limbs were old,

Prelude To A Volume Printed In Raised Letters For The Blind

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse

That veils the noonday,--you whose finger-tips

April in the Hills

© Archibald Lampman

To-day the world is wide and fair

With sunny fields of lucid air,

Supple Cord by Naomi Shihab Nye: American Life in Poetry #107 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20

© Ted Kooser

Naomi Shihab Nye is one of my favorite poets. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, and travels widely, an ambassador for poetry. Here she captures a lovely moment from her childhood.

Why Do I Love?

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Why do I love?
Is it for men to choose
The hour of the hushed night when crowned with dews
From its sea grave the morning star shall wake?

Alfred. Book V.

© Henry James Pye

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

Book Fourteenth [conclusion]

© William Wordsworth

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er

Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts

A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged 3 Years and 5 months

© Thomas Hood

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

An Essay on Death and a Prison

© Henry King

A prison is in all things like a grave,
Where we no better priviledges have
Then dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled
Lives freer now, then when she was cloystered

Inscribed To The Pathetic Memory Of The Poet Henry Timrod

© Madison Julius Cawein

_Long are the days, and three times long the nights.

The weary hours are a heavy chain

The Tasmanian Aborigine's Lament

© Anonymous

Fair island of my birth, thy distant rocks
Call forth the tenderest feelings of my heart;
Although the sight of thee my yearning mocks,
For cruel waves thee from my children part.
Ah! White man, why---Oh! Why thy childhood's home
Did'st thou abandon, to drive us from ours?

The Stealing Of The Mare - VIII

Said the Narrator:
And when the Emir Abu Zeyd desired to depart, then said to him the Emir Jaber, ``Was it for the mare then that thou camest to our country, or for what else?'' And Abu Zeyd related to him the whole story of the ancient dame and of all that had happened. And the Emir Fadel cried to the grooms, ``Lead forth the mare, the Hamameh.'' And they led her forth and brought her to the Emir Abu Zeyd. And he departed with her after that he had bidden them farewell. And he went back to those shepherds, and took from them his riding camel, and ceased not until he had returned unto his own Arabs. And when they saw him they saluted him, and came around him and rejoiced exceedingly, and they made feastings, and the tribe rejoiced. And Abu Zeyd related to them all that had happened to him, and they wondered greatly and all the tribe with them. Then sent he to the ancient dame Ghanimeh and begged of her that she might come, and when she came he delivered to her the mare and the gifts and bade her depart to her own people. But she said to him, ``Nay, but send with me one who shall charge himself with my affairs.'' And he sent with her Abul Komsan. And Abul Komsan went with Ghanimeh. And they had not journeyed seven days when they met with the tribe of En Naaman. And Abul Komsan went unto Naaman and said to him: ``Saith my lord Abu Zeyd to thee, let Amer espouse thy daughter, for behold, the mare thou didst require of him my lord hath obtained her for thee.'' But when Naaman heard that, he said, ``Take the mare and return to thy Lord and say he will not listen to thy words, neither will he follow thy counsel.'' But he said to him, ``If thou wilt not do this thing then will I slay thee in the midst of thy Arabs, and destroy thee utterly.'' But when Naaman heard this he leaped upon his mare and rushed upon Abul Komsan. But Abul Komsan struck him with his spear upon his breast and pierced him through, so that the spear shone beyond him. And he called out to all the men of the tribe, and defied them, saying, ``I am your peer, and better than your peer.'' But they said to him, ``Nay, but thou hast done us a service, for this one refused to do according to our counsels.'' So Abul Komsan bade them bury him. And they buried him. Then he bade them to bring Amer before him, and Abul Komsan made rejoicings for him and placed him upon the seat of authority in the room of his uncle Naaman. And they brought to him also Betina, the daughter of Naaman, and he ordered their marriage. And when he had done all these things he desired to leave them. But they brought him gifts and they led forth for him the mare, and he took her and his leave of them and departed, and returned to his master and told him all the story. And Abu Zeyd rejoiced and gave thanks.
And the Narrator once more began his singing and he said:

Sylvia's Mother

Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's busy,
too busy to come to the phone .
Sylvia's mother says Sylvia's trying
to start a new life of her own.
Sylvia's mother says "Sylvia's happy...
So why don't you leave her alone?"

Tatiana's Letter

Allotted unto you was I
E'en from the moment of my birth
And loyal to my future fate;
And God, I know, sent you to be
My champion and my advocate
Till the grave closes over me. . . .