Poems begining by R
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Rural Architecture
© William Wordsworth
THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more
Than the height of a counsellor's bag;
To the top of Great How did it please them to climb:
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,
A Man on the peak of the crag.
Rivulose
© Archie Randolph Ammons
You think the ridge hills flowing, breaking
with ups and downs will, though,
building constancy into the black foreground
Rapids
© Archie Randolph Ammons
Fall's leaves are redder than
spring's flowers, have no pollen,
and also sometimes fly, as the wind
schools them out or down in shoals
Rogue Elephant
© Archie Randolph Ammons
The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to searchthe moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, thebest, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why thenyou see the danger in the effective: better
Retalliation
© William Cowper
The works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus, thou scorn'st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!
Restlessness
© Emma Lazarus
Would I had waked this morn where Florence smiles,
A-bloom with beauty, a white rose full-blown,
Regret
© Victor Marie Hugo
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.
Rubens' Hell
© Kenneth Slessor
VENUS with rosy-cloven rump
And rings of straw-bright flying hair
Looks in the glass that slaves are plying
Not for her own face floating there,
Rumbo Al Olvido
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
¡Oh pobres almas nuestras
que perdieron el nido
y que van arrastradas
en la falsa corriente
del olvido!
Revolution
© Lesbia Harford
She is not of the fireside,
My lovely love;
Nor books, nor even a cradle,
She bends above.
Remorse. (From August Von Platen)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How I started up in the night, in the night,
Drawn on without rest or reprieval!
The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sight,
As I wandered so light
In the night, in the night,
Through the gate with the arch mediaeval.
Remembrance
© Amelia Opie
How dear to me the twilight hour!
It breathes, it speaks of pleasures past;
When Laura sought this humble bower,
And o'er it courtly splendours cast.
Recovery
© Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov
As a wild flower hangs its head and wilts
Beneath the reaper's killing scythe,
Revenge
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
'Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,
Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,
The thunders wild voice rattles madly above,
You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.'--
Remembrance
© George Gordon Byron
'Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams;
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast,
