Mom poems

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The Four Seasons : Autumn

© James Thomson

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost

Beer

© Charles Stuart Calverley

In those old days which poets say were golden -

(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:

Here am I, bound upon this pillared rock,
Prey to the vulture of a vast desire
That feeds upon my life. I burst my bands
And steal a moment's freedom from the beak,
The clinging talons and the shadowing plumes;
Then comes the false enchantress, with her song;

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 01:

© Conrad Aiken

The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea.
The walls and towers are warmed and gleam.
Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves.
The city stirs like one that is half in dream.

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 251-500 (Whinfield Translation)

© Omar Khayyám

Are you depressed? Then take of bhang one grain,
Of rosy grape-juice take one pint or twain;
Sufis, you say, must not take this or that,
Then go and eat the pebbles off the plain!

Paradise Lost : Book IV.

© John Milton

O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw

The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,

The Golden Yesterday

© Roderic Quinn

AFTER a spell of chill, grey weather,
(Green, O green, are the feet of Spring!)
The heaven is here of flower and feather,
Of wild red blossom and flashing wing.

The Last Envoy

© Edith Nesbit

THIS wind, that through the silent woodland blows,
O'er rippling corn and dreaming pastures goes
Straight to the garden where the heart of spring
Faints in the heart of summer's earliest rose.

The Poet's Choice

© Anacreon

If hoarded gold possessed a power

To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,

Forefathers

© Edmund Blunden

Here they went with smock and crook,
Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade,
Here they mudded out the brook
And here their hatchet cleared the glade:
Harvest-supper woke their wit,
Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit.

The Hall Of Justice

© George Crabbe

Take, take away thy barbarous hand,
And let me to thy Master speak;
Remit awhile the harsh command,
And hear me, or my heart will break.

To My Love.

"PAINT me," you said, "a poem; give to me
A breathing thought that I may keep to kiss!"
While that low laugh that aye a mandate is
Nestled upon your lips. Call memory