Men poems
/ page 118 of 131 /
The Everlasting Gospel
© William Blake
The vision of Christ that thou dost see
Is my visions greatest enemy.
The Old-Home Folks
© James Whitcomb Riley
Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.
Giant Snail
© Elizabeth Bishop
The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all
night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body-foot,
The Boy
© Marilyn Hacker
It is the boy in me who's looking out
the window, while someone across the street
mends a pillowcase, clouds shift, the gutter spout
pours rain, someone else lights a cigarette?
Rune of the Finland Woman
© Marilyn Hacker
She could bind the world's winds in a single strand.
She could find the world's words in a singing wind.
She could lend a weird will to a mottled hand.
She could wind a willed word from a muddled mind.
Iva's Pantoum
© Marilyn Hacker
We pace each other for a long time.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the baby on the mountain. I am
in a cold stream where I led you.
The Story of Sigurd the Volsung (excerpt)
© William Morris
"When thou hearest the fool rejoicing, and he saith, 'It is over and past,
And the wrong was better than right, and hate turns into love at the last,
And we strove for nothing at all, and the Gods are fallen asleep;
For so good is the world a-growing that the evil good shall reap:'
Then loosen thy sword in the scabbard and settle the helm on thine head,
For men betrayed are mighty, and great are the wrongfully dead.
King Arthur's Tomb
© William Morris
Hot August noon: already on that day
Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad
Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way;
Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
In Arthur's House
© William Morris
"As quoth the lion to the mouse,"
The man said; "in King Arthur's House
Men are not names of men alone,
But coffers rather of deeds done."
The White Cliffs
© Alice Duer Miller
Yet I have loathed those voices when the sense
Of what they said seemed to me insolence,
As if the dominance of the whole nation
Lay in that clear correct enunciation.
Cold-Blooded Creatures
© Elinor Wylie
Man, the egregious egoist
(In mystery the twig is bent)
Imagines, by some mental twist,
That he alone is sentient
Verses on the Death of Doctor Swift
© Jonathan Swift
As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew
From nature, I believe 'em true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
To Stella, Who Collected and Transcribed His Poems
© Jonathan Swift
As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones;
But all admire Inigo Jones:
Nevertheless
© Marianne Clarke Moore
you've seen a strawberry
that's had a struggle; yet
was, where the fragments met,
Gnomic Verses
© Robert Creeley
Down the road Up the hill Into the house
Over the wall Under the bed After the fact
By the way Out of the woods Behind the times
In front of the door Between the lines Along the path
The Voyage Of Columbus
© Samuel Rogers
Unclasp me, Stranger; and unfold,
With trembling care my leaves of gold,
Rich in gothic portraiture--
If yet, alas, a leaf endure.
The Odour. 2 Cor. II.
© George Herbert
How sweetly doth My Master sound! My Master!
As amber-greese leaves a rich scent
Unto the taster:
So do these words a sweet content,
In orientall fragrancie, My Master.
The Pennsylvania Disaster
© William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas in the year of 1889, and in the month of June,
Ten thousand people met with a fearful doom,
By the bursting of a dam in Pennsylvania State,
And were burned, and drowned by the flood-- oh! pity their fate!
The Death of the Old Mendicant
© William Topaz McGonagall
There was a rich old gentleman
Lived on a lonely moor in Switzerland,
And he was very hard to the wandering poor,
'Tis said he never lodged nor served them at his door.
The Death of Fred Marsden, the American Playwright
© William Topaz McGonagall
A pathetic tragedy I will relate,
Concerning poor Fred. Marsden's fate,
Who suffocated himself by the fumes of gas,
On the 18th of May, and in the year of 1888, alas!
