Poems begining by P
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Part In Peace: Is Day Before Us?
© Sarah Flower Adams
Part in peace: is day before us?
Praise His Name for life and light;
Are the shadows lengthening oer us?
Bless His care Who guards the night.
Phedre
© Oscar Wilde
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
Portrait in Georgia
© Jean Toomer
Hair--braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes--fagots,
Lips--old scars, or the first red blisters,
Phantasmagoria CANTO V ( Byckerment )
© Lewis Carroll
"DON'T they consult the 'Victims,' though?"
I said. "They should, by rights,
Give them a chance - because, you know,
The tastes of people differ so,
Especially in Sprites."
Phantasmagoria CANTO IV ( Hys Nouryture )
© Lewis Carroll
"OH, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea."
Phantasmagoria CANTO III ( Scarmoges )
© Lewis Carroll
"AND did you really walk," said I,
"On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly -
If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height."
Prologue
© Lewis Carroll
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.
Preface to Hunting of the Snark
© Lewis Carroll
If---and the thing is wildly possible---the charge of writing
nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but
instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line
Punctuality
© Lewis Carroll
Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done to late.
Peter Quince at the Clavier
© Edwin Muir
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Preludes
© Thomas Stearns Eliot
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Phenomenal Woman
© Jon Anderson
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
Philosophia Perennis
© Anne Waldman
I turned: quivering yellow stars in blackness
I wept: how speech may save a woman
The picture changes & promises the heroine
That nighttime & meditation are a mirage
Poor Angels
© Edward Hirsch
At this hour the soul floats weightlessly
through the city streets, speechless and invisible,
astonished by the smoky blend of grays and golds
seeping out of the air, the dark half-tones
Poverty
© Jane Taylor
I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.
