Mom poems
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A Tumbler Of Claret
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
I poured out a tumbler of Claret,
Of course with intention to drink,
Sonnet XV. To Schiller
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die,
If thro' the shudd'ring midnight I had sent
From the dark Dungeon of the Tower time-rent
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry--
Affinities
© Mathilde Blind
TAKE me to thy heart, and let me
Rest my head a little while;
Rest my heart from griefs that fret me
In the mercy of thy smile.
Envy
© Edgar Albert Guest
It's a bigger thing you're doing than the most of us have done;
We have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun,
And upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife;
Yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life.
Oh, I don't know how to say it, but I'll never think of you
Without wishing I were sharing in the work you have to do.
A Man Meets A Woman In The Street
© Randall Jarrell
Under the separated leaves of shade
Of the gingko, that old tree
Un Secret
© Alexis Felix Arvers
Mon ame a son secret, ma vie a son mystere:
Un amour eternel en un moment concu.
Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j'ai du le taire,
Et celle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su.
Prisonnier d'un bureau, je connais le plaisir
© François Coppée
Prisonnier d'un bureau, je connais le plaisir
De goûter, tous les soirs, un moment de loisir.
Je rentre lentement chez moi, je me délasse
Aux cris des écoliers qui sortent de la classe ;
The Huron Chiefs Daughter
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre,
The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire.
It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude,
To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood.
The Wonder-Working Magician - Act II
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
CYPRIAN. Ever wrangling in this way,
How ye both my patience try!
Why can he not go? Say why?
To Memory
© Thomas Sturge Moore
Thou dream of dreams, which most we can retrieve
And least forget, for thee dramatic truth
Drapes in fresh silks the tragedy of youth.
Yet as they act, our eyes, once blind, perceive
Much those performers are too fond to note
Till phantom sobs catch in a shrivelled throat.
"I stand alone at the foot " by William Kloefkorn: American Life in Poetry #147 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poe
© Ted Kooser
Our earliest recollections are often imprinted in our memories because they were associated with some kind of stress. Here, in an untitled poem, the Nebraska State Poet, William Kloefkorn, brings back a difficult moment from many years before, and makes a late confession:
"I stand alone at the foot "
The Castle Of Indolence
© James Thomson
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
On Chenoweths Run
© Madison Julius Cawein
I thought of the road through the glen,
With its hawk's nest high in the pine;
With its rock, where the fox had his den,
'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,
Where she swore to be mine.
Laurance - [Part 2]
© Jean Ingelow
Then looking hard upon her, came to him
The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth
Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed,
And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child
That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes.
Cicely
© Francis Bret Harte
Cicely says you're a poet; maybe,--I ain't much on rhyme:
I reckon you'd give me a hundred, and beat me every time.
Poetry!--that's the way some chaps puts up an idee,
But I takes mine "straight without sugar," and that's what's the matter with me.
The Choice Of Sweet Shy Clare
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay
On the velvet swardenjoying the golden summer day;
And many a ringing silvry laugh on the calm air clearly fell,
With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.
What The Doctor Said
© Raymond Carver
He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
The Rape Of Lucrece
© William Shakespeare
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
The Pimpernel
© Celia Thaxter
SHE walks beside the silent shore,
The tide is high, the breeze is still;
