Men poems

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Hiawatha And Mudjekeewis

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of childhood into manhood
Now had grown my Hiawatha,
Skilled in all the craft of hunters,
Learned in all the lore of old men,

Something Left Undone

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.

The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs
And the menace of their wrath.

A Letter To My Aunt

© Dylan Thomas

A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.

Unto like Story -- Trouble has enticed me

© Emily Dickinson

Unto like Story -- Trouble has enticed me --
How Kinsmen fell --
Brothers and Sister -- who preferred the Glory --
And their young will

The Trees like Tassels -- hit -- and swung --

© Emily Dickinson

The Trees like Tassels -- hit -- and swung --
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun --

The Show is not the Show

© Emily Dickinson

The Show is not the Show
But they that go --
Menagerie to me
My Neighbor be --
Fair Play --
Both went to see --

The first Day's Night had come

© Emily Dickinson

The first Day's Night had come --
And grateful that a thing
So terrible -- had been endured --
I told my Soul to sing --

The Devil -- had he fidelity

© Emily Dickinson

The Devil -- had he fidelity
Would be the best friend --
Because he has ability --
But Devils cannot mend --

The butterfly obtains

© Emily Dickinson

The butterfly obtains
But little sympathy
Though favorably mentioned
In Entomology --

Taking up the fair Ideal,

© Emily Dickinson

Taking up the fair Ideal,
Just to cast her down
When a fracture -- we discover --
Or a splintered Crown --

Sunset that screens, reveals --

© Emily Dickinson

Sunset that screens, reveals --
Enhancing what we see
By menaces of Amethyst
And Moats of Mystery.

One Day is there of the Series

© Emily Dickinson

One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.

Of Death I try to think like this --

© Emily Dickinson

Of Death I try to think like this --
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,

Of Bronze -- and Blaze

My Splendors, are Menagerie --
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass --
Whom none but Beetles -- know.

I'll clutch -- and clutch

I'll clutch -- and clutch --
Next -- One -- Might be the golden touch --
Could take it --
Diamonds -- Wait --
I'm diving -- just a little late --
But stars -- go slow -- for night --

I know Suspense -- it steps so terse

I know Suspense -- it steps so terse
And turns so weak away --
Besides -- Suspense is neighborly
When I am riding by --

I cannot dance upon my Toes

I cannot dance upon my Toes --
No Man instructed me --
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

Death's Waylaying not the sharpest

Death's Waylaying not the sharpest
Of the thefts of Time --
There Marauds a sorer Robber,
Silence -- is his name --

Death is like the insect

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.