Mom poems
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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.
Book Fourteenth [conclusion]
© William Wordsworth
In one of those excursions (may they ne'er
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts
Tatiana's Letter
© Alexander Pushkin
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. . . .
A Moment
© Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
The clouds had made a crimson crown
Above the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
In a stormy sky.
Promontory
© Arthur Rimbaud
Golden dawn and shivering evening find our brig lying by opposite
this villa and its dependencies which form a promontory
"She sat upon the floor..."
© Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
She sat upon the floor
Looking through a pile of letters,
Outside The Village Church
© Alfred Austin
``The old Church doors stand open wide,
Though neither bells nor anthems peal.
Gazing so fondly from outside,
Why do you enter not and kneel?
Z---------'s dream
© Anne Brontë
Unwonted weakness o'er me crept;
I sighed - nay, weaker still - I wept!
Wept, like a woman o'er the deed
I had been proud to do: -
As I had made his bosom bleed;
My own was bleeding too.
Adam's Curse
© William Butler Yeats
WE sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
Ode On Venice
© George Gordon Byron
I.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
When Mother Made An Angel Cake
© Edgar Albert Guest
When mother baked an angel cake we kids would gather round
An' watch her gentle hands at work, an' never make a sound;
We'd watch her stir the eggs an' flour an' powdered sugar, too,
An' pour it in the crinkled tin, an' then when it was through
She'd spread the icing over it, an' we knew very soon
That one would get the plate to lick, an' one would get the spoon.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto I.
© George Gordon Byron
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again:
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
The Future.
© Caroline Norton
I WAS a laughing child, and gaily dwelt
Where murmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers roll'd,
The Triumph Of Melancholy
© James Beattie
Memory, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable dye?
Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,
To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye?
Manhattan Streets I Saunter'd, Pondering
© Walt Whitman
Manhatten's streets I saunter'd, pondering,
On time, space, reality-on such as these, and abreast with them,
prudence.
Lines Written At The King's-Arms, Ross, Formerly The House Of The 'Man Of Ross'
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Richer than misers o'er their countless hoards,
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted lords,
Here dwelt the man of Ross! O trav'ller, hear,
Departed merit claims a reverent tear.
