Morning poems
/ page 282 of 310 /The Call of the Winds
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Ho, when the wind of autumn rings
Through jubilant mornings crisp and golden,
Come where the yellow woodland flings
Its hoarded wealth over by-ways olden.
Mine are the grasses frosted and sere,
Sunrise Along Shore
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Athwart the harbor lingers yet
The ashen gleam of breaking day,
And where the guardian cliffs are set
The noiseless shadows steal away;
Song of the Sea-Wind
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
When the sun sets over the long blue wave
I spring from my couch of rest,
And I hurtle and boom over leagues of foam
That toss in the weltering west,
On the Bay
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
When the salt wave laps on the long, dim shore,
And frets the reef with its windy sallies,
And the dawn's white light is threading once more
The purple firs in the landward valleys,
Morning along Shore
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Hark, oh hark the elfin laughter
All the little waves along,
As if echoes speeding after
Mocked a merry merman's song!
In an Old Town Garden
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Shut from the clamor of the street
By an old wall with lichen grown,
It holds apart from jar and fret
A peace and beauty all its own.
Harbor Dawn
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
There's a hush and stillness calm and deep,
For the waves have wooed all the winds to sleep
In the shadow of headlands bold and steep;
But some gracious spirit has taken the cup
Down Stream
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Comrades, up! Let us row down stream in this first rare dawnlight,
While far in the clear north-west the late moon whitens and wanes;
Before us the sun will rise, deep-purpling headland and islet,
It is well to meet him thus, with the life astir in our veins!
As the Heart Hopes
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
It is a year dear one, since you afar
Went out beyond my yearning mortal sight
A wondrous year! perchance in many a star
You have sojourned, or basked within the light
A Winter Day
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
I The air is silent save where stirs
A bugling breeze among the firs;
The virgin world in white array
Waits for the bridegroom kiss of day;
Take This Waltz
© Leonard Cohen
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
Suzanne
© Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye
© Leonard Cohen
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating
© Amy Clampitt
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
decades ago now
Easter Morning
© Amy Clampitt
a stone at dawn
cold water in the basin
these walls' rough plaster
imageless
When He Would Have His Verses Read
© Robert Herrick
In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse
The holy incantation of a verse;
But when that men have both well drunk, and fed,
Let my enchantments then be sung or read.
The Apparition Of His, Mistress,calling Him To Elysium
© Robert Herrick
THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS,
CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUMDESUNT NONNULLA--Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings,
Let our souls fly to th' shades, wherever springs
Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil,
A Pastoral Sung To The King
© Robert Herrick
MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDSMON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we.
MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup
Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up:
To His Sweet Saviour
© Robert Herrick
Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep;
And Time seems then not for to fly, but creep;
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she
Had broke her wheel, or crack'd her axletree.
The Mad Maid's Song
© Robert Herrick
Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.