Poems begining by P

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Peter Rugg the Bostonian

© Louise Imogen Guiney

The mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.

Parting

© Frances Anne Kemble

The golden hinges of the year have turned

Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time

Phyllis, Farewell

© Thomas Bateson

Phyllis, farewell, I may no longer live;
Yet if I die, fair Phyllis, I forgive.
I live too long; come, gentle death and end
My endless torment, or my grief amend.

Power

© George MacDonald

Power that is not of God, however great,

Is but the downward rushing and the glare

Prison Song

© Alan Dugan

The skin ripples over my body like moon-wooed water,

rearing to escape me. Where could it find another

For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
That never were swift! Still all I prize,
Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
No fool to heave luxurious sighs
For the woods and hills that I never knew.
The more excellent way's yet mine! And you

Pride In Heaven

© George Moses Horton

On heaven's ethereal plain,

Where hostile rage ambition first begun,

Prelude To A Volume Printed In Raised Letters For The Blind

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse

That veils the noonday,--you whose finger-tips

Promontory

© Arthur Rimbaud

Golden dawn and shivering evening find our brig lying by opposite

this villa and its dependencies which form a promontory

Possession

© Edith Nesbit

THE child was yours and none of mine,
And yet you gave it me to keep,
And bade me sew it raiment fine,
And wrap my kisses round its sleep.

Primavera Mia

© Sara Teasdale

As kings, seeing their lives about to pass,

Take off the heavy ermine and the crown,

Phyllis's Age

© Matthew Prior

How old may Phyllis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task;
For she has really two ages.

Peace

© Rupert Brooke

Oh! we who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Nought broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Paganis, November 8

© Ezra Pound

Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very beautiful
Normande cocotte
The eyes of the very learned British Museum assistant.

Portia

© Oscar Wilde

And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio's heart to that accursèd Jew-
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

Puzzled

There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He'd written treatises and themes till, "For a change," he said,
"I think I'll write a children's book before I go to bed."

Peace

So still! So calm! Will our life's eve come thus?
No sound of strife, of labour or of pain,
No ring of woodman's axe, no dip of oar.
Will work be done, and night's rest earned, for us?
And shall we wake to see sunrise again?
Or shall we sleep, to see and know no more?