Poems begining by S

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Sleepers Awake

© John Ashbery

Cervantes was asleep when he wrote Don Quixote.

Joyce slept during the Wandering Rocks section of Ulysses.

Sonnet CXXIX: "Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame"

© William Shakespeare

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Song: To The Spring

© John Lyly

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?

O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.

Special Treatments Ward

© Dana Gioia

I put this poem aside twelve years ago
because I could not bear remembering
the faces it evoked, and every line
seemed—still seems—so inadequate and grim.

Sonnet CXXX: My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing like the Sun

© William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

Song: Why so pale and wan fond lover?

© Sir John Suckling

Why so pale and wan fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?

Supple Cord

© Naomi Shihab Nye

My brother, in his small white bed,

held one end.

Spring's Messengers

© John Clare

Where slanting banks are always with the sun

The daisy is in blossom even now;

Sonnet To Mrs. Siddons

© Helen Maria Williams

Siddons! the Muse, for many a joy refin'd,

Feelings which ever seem too swiftly fled-

Sonnet L: Beauty, Sweet Love

© Samuel Daniel

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew

Whose short refresh upon the tender green

Speed the Parting—

© Elinor Wylie

I shall not sprinkle with dust

A creature so clearly lunar;

Song: My silks and fine array

© William Blake

My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driv'n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

Banished from heaven, I found this victim beaten,
Stripped, kneed, and left to cry. Dropping my rope
Aside, I ran, ignored the uniforms:
Then I remembered bread my flesh had eaten,
The kiss that ate my flesh. Flayed without hope,
I held the man for nothing in my arms.

South

© Natasha Trethewey

Homo sapiens is the only species
to suffer psychological exile.
—E. O. Wilson

Sonnet XXV: Let those who are in Favour with their Stars

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Summer near the River

I am as monogamous as the North Star,
But I don’t want you to know it. You’d only take advantage.
While you are as fickle as spring sunlight.
All right, sleep! The cat means more to you than I.
I can rouse you, but then you swagger out.
I glimpse you from the window, striding toward the river.