Poems begining by P
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Perfect Love
© Archibald Lampman
For perfect love is like a fair green plant,
That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on,
And gentle lovers shall not come to want,
Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone;
Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies,
But sweeter still the green that never dies.
Pan
© James Whitcomb Riley
This Pan is but an idle god, I guess,
Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams
Paradise Lost : Book IV.
© John Milton
O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Probatur Aliter
© Jonathan Swift
A long-ear'd beast, a bird that prates,
The bridegrooms' first gift to their mates,
Is by all pious Christians thought,
In clergymen the greatest fault.[2]
Psalm 138
© Isaac Watts
[With all my powers of heart and tongue
I'll praise my Maker in my song:
Angels shall hear the notes I raise,
Approve the song, and join the praise.
Paradise: In A Symbol
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Golden-winged, silver-winged,
Winged with flashing flame,
Such a flight of birds I saw,
Birds without a name:
Singing songs in their own tongue
(Song of songs) they came.
Pan
© Oscar Wilde
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
Pierrot's Song
© Sara Teasdale
Lady, light in the east hangs low,
Draw your veils of dream apart,
Under the casement stands Pierrot
Making a song to ease his heart.
(Yet do not break the song too soon-
I love to sing in the paling moon.)
Parody On The Recorders Speech To His Grace The Duke Of Ormond, 4th July, 1711
© Jonathan Swift
An ancient metropolis, famous of late
For opposing the Church, and for nosing the State,
For protecting sedition and rejecting order,
Made the following speech by their mouth, the Recorder:
First, to tell you the name of this place of renown,
Some still call it Dublin, but most Forster's town.
Programme
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
READER--gentle--if so be
Such still live, and live for me,
Will it please you to be told
What my tenscore pages hold?
Planting the Sand Cherry by Ann Struthers: American Life in Poetry #171 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laurea
© Ted Kooser
Sometimes I think that people are at their happiest when they're engaged in activities close to the work of the earliest humans: telling stories around a fire, taking care of children, hunting, making clothes. Here an Iowan, Ann Struthers, speaks of one of those original tasks, digging in the dirt.
Planting the Sand Cherry
Personal
© Langston Hughes
In an envelope marked:
PERSONAL
God addressed me a letter.
In an envelope marked:
PERSONAL
I have given my answer.
Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year
© Raymond Carver
October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.
Portii Licinii
© Richard Lovelace
Si Phoebi soror es, mando tibi, Delia, causam,
Scilicet, ut fratri quae peto verba feras:
Marmore Sicanio struxi tibi, Delphice, templum,
Et levibus calamis candida verba dedi.
Nunc, si nos audis, atque es divinus Apollo,
Dic mihi, qui nummos non habet unde petat.
Paolo To Francesca
© James Russell Lowell
I was with thee in Heaven: I cannot tell
If years or moments, so the sudden bliss,
Peace On Earth
© William Carlos Williams
The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven-
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
