Music poems
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Hounds!
© William Henry Ogilvie
There is music on disc and on wireless,
Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless,
Mark Antony
© John Cleveland
Whenas the nightingale chanted her vespers,
And the wild forester couched on the ground,
Going To The Horse Flats
© Robinson Jeffers
Sweet was the clear
Chatter of the stream now that our talk was hushed; the flitting
water-ouzel returned to her stone;
A lovely snake, two delicate scarlet lines down the dark back,
swam through the pool. The flood-battered
Trees by the stream are more noble than cathedral-columns.
A Letter
© James Russell Lowell
From Mr. Hosea Biglow To The Hon. J.T. Buckingham, Editor Of The Boston Courier, Covering A Letter From Mr. B. Sawin, Private In The Massachusetts Regiment
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
The Master-Player
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Le Grenier
© William Makepeace Thackeray
Je viens revoir l'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misere a subi les lecons.
Christmas Hymn
© Edith Nesbit
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
First Love
© Edward Dowden
My long first year of perfect love,
My deep new dream of joy; She was a little chubby girl,
I was a chubby boy.
Jubilate Agno: Fragment B, Part 2
© Christopher Smart
LET PETER rejoice with the MOON FISH who keeps up the life in the waters by night.
Let Andrew rejoice with the Whale, who is array'd in beauteous blue and is a combination of bulk and activity.
God Has Denied Me...
© Zygmunt Krasinski
The roots of lilies probe my corpse. It shines,
A white goblet wonderfully transformed,
A lantern corpse that fills the night with signs,
- And the music of the soul makes silence alarmed.
You dim the lamp and ask the music to
Keep silent that my spirit may sleep through.
The Trash Can
© Charles Bukowski
there is a trash can on this
computer.
I just moved the poems
over
and dropped them into
the trash can.
The Realms Of Gold
© Alfred Noyes
I wished that a poet who died in Europe
Had found his way to this rose-red West;
That Keats had walked by the wide Pacific
And cradled his head on its healing breast,
And made new songs of the sun-burned sea-folk,
New poems, perhaps his best.
L'Homme Moyen Sensuel
© Ezra Pound
Yet Radway went. A circumspectious prig!
And then that woman like a guinea-pig
Accosted, that's the word, accosted him,
Thereon the amorous calor slightly frosted him.
(I burn, I freeze, I sweat, said the fair Greek,
I speak in contradictions, so to speak.)
The Ghost Ship.
© Robert Crawford
Behold her on the silent sea,
Yon vessel like a spirit there!
Moved in a dream's reality,
As if she trod the air.
The Old Leaven
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Maurice:
No, Mark, I'm not so easily cross'd;
'Tis true that I've had a run
Of bad luck lately; indeed, I've lost;
Well! somebody else has won.
Two Voices
© Edith Nesbit
COUNTRY
'SWEET are the lanes and the hedges, the fields made red with the clover,
Me Thinks This Heart Should Rest Awhile
© Emily Jane Brontë
Me thinks this heart should rest awhile
So stilly round the evening falls
The veiled sun sheds no parting smile
Nor mirth nor music wakes my Halls
