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To An Early Violet

© Swami Vivekananda

What though thy bed be frozen earth,

Thy cloak the chilling blast;

The Broken Pitcher

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Accursed be the hour of that sad day
The careless potter put his hand to thee,
And dared to fashion out of common clay
So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me.

The cat’s song

© Marge Piercy

Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother’s forgotten breasts.

During a tempest encountered homeward-bound from the Mediterranean, a grizzled petty-officer, one of the two captains of the forecastle, dying at night in his hammock, swung in the sick-bay under the tiered gun-decks of the British Dreadnought, 98, wandering in his mind, though with glimpses of sanity, and starting up at whiles, sings by snatches his good-bye and last injunctions to two messmates, his watchers, one of whom fans the fevered tar with the flap of his old sou'-wester. Some names and phrases, with here and there a line, or part of one; these, in his aberration, wrested into incoherency from their original connection and import, he involuntarily derives, as he does the measure, from a famous old sea-ditty, whose cadences, long rife, and now humming in the collapsing brain, attune the last flutterings of distempered thought.
Farewell and adieu to you noble hearties,
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain,
For Ive received orders for to sail for the Deadman,
But hope with the grand fleet to see you again.

The Ballad of the Black-Sheep

© Henry Lawson

A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run
Riding where the stockmen ride
He sat by the hut when the days work was done
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
Im tired of my life! to his lone self said he,
My girl and my country are both done with me!

To Mr. Lawrence

© Patrick Kavanagh

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,

Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,

Tender-heartedness

© Duncan Campbell Scott

Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.

The Answer

© Sara Teasdale

When I go back to earth

And all my joyous body

The Slave Mother

© Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seem’d as if a burden’d heart
Was breaking in despair.

The Wires of the Night

© Billy Collins

I thought about his death for so many hours,
tangled there in the wires of the night,
that it came to have a body and dimensions,
more than a voice shaking over the telephone
or the black obituary boldface of name and dates.

The Justice's Tale

© Rudyard Kipling

With them there rode a lustie Engineere

Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,

The Ballad of Nat Turner

© Robert Hayden

Then fled, O brethren, the wicked juba
and wandered wandered far
from curfew joys in the Dismal’s night.
Fool of St. Elmo’s fire

To Aristius Fuscus

© Eugene Field

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines,
And is a faultless liver,
Nor Moorish spear nor bow need fear,
Nor poison-arrowed quiver.

To the Mannequins

Adorable images,
Plaster of Paris
Lilies of the field,
You are not alive, therefore
Pathos will be out of place.

The Father of My Country

All fathers in Western civilization must have

a military origin. The

the message of crazy horse

© Paul Celan

i would sit in the center of the world,
the Black Hills hooped around me and
dream of my dancing horse. my wife

The Song of Songs

© King Solomon

The Song of songs, which is Solomon's.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth:
for thy love is better than wine.
Because of the savor of thy good ointments
thy name is as ointment poured forth,
therefore do the virgins love thee.