Poems begining by S
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Song
© Dodsley Robert
Man's a poor deluded bubble, Wand'ring in a mist of lies,Seeing false, or seeing double, Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?Yet presuming on his senses, On he goes most wond'rous wise:Doubts of truth, believes pretences; Lost in error, lives and dies
Success
© Emily Dickinson
Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.
Sherbourne Morning
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
I begin to understand the old men, parked on benchessmoking a bit of July, waiting for the earlybottle; the large tears of the passers-by, wrappedin white cotton, the world bandaged at 7 AM; when the day goes old, they lean overand nod into their arms, lovers, one-time carriersof their separate hearts; their wives, their childrenare glass partitions through which they see themselvescrying
Sur une Morte
© Alfred de Musset
Elle était belle, si la NuitQui dort dans la sombre chapelleOù Michel-Angé a fait son lit,Immobile peut être belle.
Skirt, My Pretty Name
© Crosbie Lynn
and the space between my name and myself grows larger until... .- Rosalie Sings Alone
Sergei Mironovitch Kirov
© Rupert John Cornford
Nothing is ever certain, nothing is ever safe,To-day is overturning yesterday's settled good
Sonnet XVI. November
© Hartley Coleridge
The mellow year is hasting to its close;The little birds have almost sung their last,Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows:The patient beauty of the scentless rose,Oft with the Morn's hoar chrystal quaintly glass'd,Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,And makes a little summer where it grows:In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief dayThe dusky waters shudder as they shine,The russet leaves obstruct the straggling wayOf oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine
Sonnet VII. Whither is Gone the Wisdom and the Power
© Hartley Coleridge
Whither is gone the wisdom and the powerThat ancient sages scatter'd with the notesOf thought-suggesting lyres? The music floatsIn the void air; e'en at this breathing hour,In every cell and every blooming bowerThe sweetness of old lays is hovering still:But the strong soul, the self-constraining will,The rugged root that bare the winsome flowerIs weak and wither'd
Song (The Earliest Wish I ever Knew)
© Hartley Coleridge
The earliest wish I ever knewWas woman's kind regard to win;I felt it long e'er passion grew,E'er such a wish could be a sin.
Song of Ecclesiastes
© Clarke George Elliott
The wind chooses where song should fall,Where chaff should drift
Shopping
© Christakos Margaret
She goes from store to storewanting to spend money on herselfto forget him, his belligerent asshole idiot self.
Stanzas for Music
© George Gordon Byron
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean
Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXVIII
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
First time he kissed me, he but only kissedThe fingers of this hand wherewith I write;And ever since, it grew more clean and white,Slow to world-greetings, quick with its
