Time poems

 / page 409 of 792 /
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Thirteen Blackbirds Look at a Man

© Ronald Stuart Thomas

We have eaten
the blackberries and spat out
the seeds, but they lie
glittering like the eyes of a man.

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Sometimes Never

© Joyce Sutphen

Talking, we begin to find the way into
our hearts, we who knew no words,
words being a rare commodity
in those countries we left behind.

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Believe It

© John Logan

There is a two-headed goat, a four-winged chicken 
and a sad lamb with seven legs
whose complicated little life was spent in Hopland, 
California. I saw the man with doubled eyes
who seemed to watch in me my doubts about my spirit. 
Will it snag upon this aging flesh?

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Curriculum Vitae

© Samuel Menashe

Scribe out of work
At a loss for words
Not his to begin with,
The man life passed by
Stands at the window
Biding his time

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The Rich Man’s Woes

© Edgar Albert Guest

HE 'S worth a million dollars and you think he should be glad,
Because you want for money you believe he can't be sad;
His name is in the papers nearly every day or so,
If he wants a trip to Europe he can pack his grip and go,
But he's really heavy-hearted and he often wears a frown,
For his daughter contradicts him and his new wife calls him down.

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The Windhover

© Gerard Manley Hopkins

To Christ our LordTo Christ our Lord This epigraph dedicated the poem to Jesus while echoing the Latin phrase, Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, the Jesuit motto meaning “To the Greater Glory of God.”


I caught this morning morning's minionminion favorite, darling; also, an underling or servant, king-

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Later On

© William Percy French

Later on, later on,
Oh what many friends have gone,
Sweet lips that smiled and loving eyes that shone
Through the darkness into light,
One by one they've winged their flight
And perhaps we'll play together -- later on.

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The Princess: Our Enemies Have Fall'n

© Alfred Tennyson

 Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.

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W. Gilmore Simms

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

THE swift mysterious seasons rise and set;
The omnipotent years pass o'er us, bright or dun;--
Dawns blush, and mid-days burn, 'till scarce aware
Of what deep meaning haunts our twilight air,

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Dreams in War Time

© Amy Lowell

I

I wandered through a house of many rooms.

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Note to Reality

© Tony Hoagland

but your honeycombs and beetles; the dry blond fascicles of grass
  thrust up above the January snow.
Your postcards of Picasso and Matisse,
  from the museum series on European masters.

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Nonsense Alphabet

© Edward Lear

A was an Area Arch
  Where washerwomen sat;
They made a lot of lovely starch
  To starch Papa's cravat.

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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.

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To Mr. Lawrence

© Patrick Kavanagh

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,


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

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Upon My Lady Carlisle’s Walking in Hampton Court Garden

© Sir John Suckling

Dull and insensible, couldst see
A thing so near a deity
Move up and down, and feel no change?

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Love: To A Little Girl

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

When we all lie still

Where churchyard pines their funeral vigil keep,

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Mutability

© André Breton

From low to high doth dissolution climb,


And sink from high to low, along a scale

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Ferdiah; Or, The Fight At The Ford

© Denis Florence MacCarthy

Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise,
Time for the fearful combat to prepare;
For hither with the anger in his eyes,
To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair.

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Annie Protheroe. A Legend of Stratford-le-Bow

© William Schwenck Gilbert

OH! listen to the tale of little ANNIE PROTHEROE.
She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of BOW;
She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day -
A gentle executioner whose name was GILBERT CLAY.

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from Venus and Adonis

© William Shakespeare

Even as the sunne with purple-colourd face,
Had tane his last leaue of the weeping morne,
Rose-cheekt Adonis hied him to the chace,
Hunting he lou'd, but loue he laught to scorne,
 Sick-thoughted Venus makes amaine vnto him,
 And like a bold fac'd suter ginnes to woo him.