Morning poems
/ page 87 of 310 /
Venice
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
WHILE the skies of this northern November
Scowl down with a darkening menace,
I wonder if you still remember
That marvellous summer in Venice.
The Two Lovers Of Heaven: Chrysanthus And Daria - Act I
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Chrysanthus is seen seated near a writing table on which are several
books: he is reading a small volume with deep attention.
The Church Of Brou
© Matthew Arnold
Down the Savoy valleys sounding,
Echoing round this castle old,
'Mid the distant mountain-chalets
Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?
Prejudice
© Jane Taylor
It is not worth our while, but if it were,
We all could undertake to laugh at her ;
Since vulgar prejudice, the lowest kind,
Of course, has full possession of her mind ;
Here, therefore, let us leave her, and inquire
Wherein it differs as it rises higher.
To John Nichol: Sonnets
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
FRIEND of the dead, and friend of all my days
Even since they cast off boyhood, I salute
Editing Poetry
© Karl Shapiro
Next to my office where I edit poems ("Can poems be edited?") there is the Chicago Models club. All day the girls stroll past my door where I am editing poems, behind my head a signed photograph of Rupert Brooke, handsomer than any movie star. I edit, keeping one eye peeled for models, straining my ears to hear what they say. In there they photograph the girls on the bamboo furniture, glossies for the pulsing facades of night spots. One day the manager brings me flowers, a huge and damaged bouquet: hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns (least hurt), and bruised carnations. I accept the gift, remainder of last night's opening (where?), debut of lower-class blondes. I distribute the flowers in the other poetry rooms, too formal-looking for our disarray.
Now after every model's bow to the footlights the manager brings more flowers, hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns, and bruised carnations. I edit poems to the click of sharp high heels, flanked by the swords of lavendar debut, whiffing the cinnamon of crepe-paper-pink carnations of the bruised and lower-class blondes.
Behind me rears my wall of books, most formidable of himan barriers. No flower depresses me like the iris but these I have a fondness for. They bring stale memories ver the threshold of the street. They bring the night of cloth palm trees and soft plastic leopard charis, night of sticky drinks, the shining rhinestone hour in the dark-blue mirror, the peroxide chat of models and photogenic morn.
Today the manager brings all gladioli. A few rose petals lie in the corridor. The mail is heavy this morning.
Wait For The Morning
© James Whitcomb Riley
Wait for the morning:--It will come, indeed,
As surely as the night hath given need.
Sonnet. On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story of Rimini'
© John Keats
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
Suggested By The Death Of Charles Skinner Matthews
© John Kenyon
Joyously launched on life's untravelled streams,
Youth fears nor open sea nor treacherous bay;
Song of the Squatter
© Anonymous
The boss last night in the hut did say
We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and dont be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go.
Prometheus
© James Russell Lowell
One after one the stars have risen and set,
Sparkling upon the hoarfrost on my chain:
The Four Seasons : Spring
© James Thomson
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
Clair de Lune
© Anthony Evan Hecht
Powder and scent and silence. The young dwarf
Shoulders his lute. The moon is Levantine.
It settles its pearl in every glass of wine.
Harlequin is already at the wharf.
A Bill for the Better Promotion of Oppression on the Sabbath Day
© Thomas Love Peacock
Forasmuch as the Canter's and Fanatic's Lord
Sayeth peace and joy are by me abhorred;
"Not unto endless dark..."
© William Wilfred Campbell
Not unto endless dark do we go down,
Though all the wisdom of wide earth said yea,
The Happy Traveller
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
WHO is the monarch of the Road?
I, the happy rover!
Lord of the way which lies before
Up to the hill and over--
Owner of all beneath the blue,
On till the end, and after, too!
Tamar
© Robinson Jeffers
Grass grows where the flame flowered;
A hollowed lawn strewn with a few black stones
And the brick of broken chimneys; all about there
The old trees, some of them scarred with fire, endure the sea
wind.
In The Garden VIII: Later Autumn
© Edward Dowden
THIS is the year's despair: some wind last night
Utter'd too soon the irrevocable word,
