Life poems

 / page 780 of 844 /
star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Who am I?

© Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
universal life.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Waiting

© Carl Sandburg

TODAY I will let the old boat stand
Where the sweep of the harbor tide comes in
To the pulse of a far, deep-steady sway.
And I will rest and dream and sit on the deck
Watching the world go by
And take my pay for many hard days gone I remember.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Humdrum

© Carl Sandburg

IF I had a million lives to live
and a million deaths to die
in a million humdrum worlds,
I’d like to change my name

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Skyscraper

© Carl Sandburg

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the
earth and hold the building to a turning planet.
Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and
hold together the stone walls and floors.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Happiness

© Carl Sandburg

I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

An Autumn Sunset

© Edith Wharton

ILeaguered in fire
The wild black promontories of the coast extend
Their savage silhouettes;
The sun in universal carnage sets,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Susana Soca

© Jorge Luis Borges

With lingering love she gazed at the dispersed
Colors of dusk. It pleased her utterly
To lose herself in the complex melody
Or in the cunous life to be found in verse.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

The Other Tiger

© Jorge Luis Borges

A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here
Exalts the vast and busy Library
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Adam Cast Forth

© Jorge Luis Borges

Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Browning Decides To Be A Poet

© Jorge Luis Borges

in these red labyrinths of London
I find that I have chosen
the strangest of all callings,
save that, in its way, any calling is strange.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Limits

© Jorge Luis Borges

Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Instants

© Jorge Luis Borges

I was one of those who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umberella and without a parachute,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok

© Amy Lowell

But why did I kill him? Why? Why?
In the small, gilded room, near the stair?
My ears rack and throb with his cry,
And his eyes goggle under his hair,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

A Petition

© Amy Lowell

I pray to be the tool which to your hand
Long use has shaped and moulded till it be
Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
You take it for its service. I demand

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Off the Turnpike

© Amy Lowell

Good ev'nin', Mis' Priest.
I jest stepped in to tell you Good-bye.
Yes, it's all over.
All my things is packed

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris

© Amy Lowell

Dear Virgin Mary, far away,
Look down from Heaven while I pray.
Open your golden casement high,
And lean way out beyond the sky.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde

© Amy Lowell

The Bell in the convent tower swung.
High overhead the great sun hung,
A navel for the curving sky.
The air was a blue clarity.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Pickthorn Manor

© Amy Lowell

I
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! A
steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, Let drop the

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

The Last Quarter of the Moon

© Amy Lowell

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,
A spatter of rust on its polished steel!
The seasons reel
Like a goaded wheel.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

To John Keats

© Amy Lowell

Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian