Life poems
/ page 776 of 844 /
For Little Things
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Last night I looked across the hills
And through an arch of darkling pine
Low-swung against a limpid west
I saw a young moon shine.
Down Stream
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Comrades, up! Let us row down stream in this first rare dawnlight,
While far in the clear north-west the late moon whitens and wanes;
Before us the sun will rise, deep-purpling headland and islet,
It is well to meet him thus, with the life astir in our veins!
Come, Rest Awhile
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away. Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet, That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells,
At the Long Sault
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
A prisoner under the stars I lie,
With no friend near;
To-morrow they lead me forth to die,
The stake is ready, the torments set,
A Winter Day
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
I The air is silent save where stirs
A bugling breeze among the firs;
The virgin world in white array
Waits for the bridegroom kiss of day;
A Request
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
When I am dead
I would that ye make my bed
On that low-lying, windy waste by the sea,
Where the silvery grasses rustle and lisp;
The Ever-Patient Woman
© Andree Chedid
In the flowing sap
In her growing fever
Parting her veils
Cracking out of her shells
Sliding out of her skins
The Final Poem
© Andree Chedid
Where are the words,
The undying fire,
The final poem?
The source of life?
The Future
© Leonard Cohen
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Sisters Of Mercy
© Leonard Cohen
Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go
on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me
Waiting For The Miracle
© Leonard Cohen
(co-written by Sharon Robinson)
Baby, I've been waiting,
I've been waiting night and day.
I didn't see the time,
Vacant Lot With Pokeweed
© Amy Clampitt
Tufts, follicles, grubstake
biennial rosettes, a low-
life beach-blond scruff of
couch grass: notwithstanding
the interglinting dregs
A Hedge Of Rubber Trees
© Amy Clampitt
The West Village by then was changing; before long
the rundown brownstones at its farthest edge
would have slipped into trendier hands. She lived,
impervious to trends, behind a potted hedge of
To Mistress Katharine Bradshaw, The Lovely, That Crowned Him With Laurel
© Robert Herrick
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
His Age:dedicated To His Peculiar Friend,mr John Wickes, Under The Name Ofpostumus
© Robert Herrick
Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly
And leave no sound: nor piety,
Or prayers, or vow
Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
The Plaudite, Or End Of Life
© Robert Herrick
If after rude and boisterous seas
My wearied pinnace here finds ease;
If so it be I've gain'd the shore,
With safety of a faithful oar;
To Live Merrily, And To Trust To Good Verses
© Robert Herrick
Now is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth
The golden pomp is come.
A Paranaeticall, Or Advisive Verseto His Friend, Mr John Wicks
© Robert Herrick
Is this a life, to break thy sleep,
To rise as soon as day doth peep?
To tire thy patient ox or ass
By noon, and let thy good days pass,
To Enjoy The Time
© Robert Herrick
While fates permit us, let's be merry;
Pass all we must the fatal ferry;
And this our life, too, whirls away,
With the rotation of the day.
Upon Himself
© Robert Herrick
Thou shalt not all die; for while Love's fire shines
Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines;
And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's
Fame, and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.
