Time poems
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Watercolour for Negro Expatriates in France
© Clarke George Elliott
What are calendars to you?And, indeed, what are atlases? Time is cool jazz in Bretagne,you, hidden in berets or eccentric scarves,somewhere over the rainbow
Queen (9-10 p.m., Eastern Standard Time)
© Christakos Margaret
I was just trimming the beard about my sex(Sorry if you did not know royal women do this)
G3. Social Scientist
© Christakos Margaret
A / central paradox of our society istape, find the part and play it.
The Wind
© Chivers Thomas Holley
Thou wringest, with thy invisible hand, the foam Out of the emerald drapery of the sea,Beneath whose foldings lies the Sea-Nymph's home -- Lifted, to make it visible, by thee;Till thou art exiled, earthward, from the maine,To cool the parched tongue of the Earth with rain
The Triumph of Love
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
To Daughter Ann, New Year's Day, 1567
© Cecil William
As years do grow, so cares increase,And time will move to look to thrift
A Leak in the Dike
© Cary Phoebe
The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day,And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play:"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see,To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me;And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet;You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set
An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Carew
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegyTo crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flowerOf fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,Dry as the sand that measures it, should layUpon thy ashes, on the funeral day?Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispenseThrough all our language, both the words and sense?'Tis a sad truth
Lines to Mr. Hodgson Written on Board the Lisbon Packet
© George Gordon Byron
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last;Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o'er the mast
