Poems begining by S

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Song of the Thunders

© Pierre Reverdy

Sometimes I,
I go about pitying
Myself
While I am carried by the wind
Across the sky.

Surprised by Joy

© André Breton

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind

I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom

Symphony of a Mexican Garden

© Grace Hazard Conkling

But all across the trudging ragged chords
That are the tangled grasses in the heat,
The mariposa lilies fluttering
Like trills upon some archangelic flute,

Song of the Open Road

© Walt Whitman

1
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Snow flakes. (45)

© Emily Dickinson

I counted till they danced so

Their slippers leaped the town –

Sonnet CXXXVIII: When my love swears that she is made of truth

© William Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

Spring Song

© Pierre Reverdy

As my eyes search the prairie

I feel the summer in the spring.

"Shall I wasting in despair"

© George Wither

Shall I wasting in despair

Die because a woman's fair?

Sir, Say no More

© Trumbull Stickney

Sir, say no more.
Within me ’t is as if
The green and climbing eyesight of a cat
Crawled near my mind’s poor birds.

Summer in a Small Town

© Tony Hoagland

Yes, the young mothers are beautiful,
with all the self-acceptance of exhaustion,
still dazed from their great outpouring,
pushing their strollers along the public river walk.

Swifts

© Gerald Stern

Bing Crosby died in Spain

while playing golf with Franco

Stolen Pleasure

© William Drummond (of Hawthornden)

My sweet did sweetly sleep,

And on her rosy face

Sonnet Reversed

© Rupert Brooke

Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights

Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.

Song: Sweetest love, I do not go

© John Donne

Sweetest love, I do not go,

For weariness of thee,

Satires of Circumstance in Fifteen Glimpses VIII: In the Study

© Thomas Hardy

He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair
Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,
A type of decayed gentility;
And by some small signs he well can guess
That she comes to him almost breakfastless.

Sonnet XII: I did but Prompt the Age to Quit their Clogs

© Patrick Kavanagh

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

By the known rules of ancient liberty,

Sunday Morning

© Edwin Muir

I

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Surfaces

© Kay Ryan

Surfaces serve

their own purposes,

Salvage

© Kay Ryan

The wreck

is a fact.

Speculation

© Ruth Stone

In the coolness here I care

Not for the down-pressed noises overhead,

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