Time poems

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No Time

© Billy Collins

In a rush this weekday morning,
I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery
where my parents are buried
side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite.

Jabberwocky

© Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Ronalds Of The Bennals

© Robert Burns

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a', man.

“oh antic God”

© Paul Celan

I can barely recall her song
the scent of her hands
though her wild hair scratches my dreams
at night. return to me, oh Lord of then
and now, my mother’s calling,
her young voice humming my name.

A Grave By The Sea

© George Essex Evans

No white cloud sails the lonely sky,

Thro the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 07:

Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain,
If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming
Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal
My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting
Day after day, close to a certain window,
Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . .

The Banks Of Wye - Book III

© Robert Bloomfield

PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales,

Untainted fly your summer gales;

My Sister's Sleep

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
The pain nought else might yet relieve.

O. W. Holmes On His Eightieth Birth-Day

© John Greenleaf Whittier

Climbing a path which leads back never more

We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer;

To The Same (John Dyer)

© William Wordsworth

ENOUGH of climbing toil!--Ambition treads
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
As we for most uncertain recompence

Julian and Maddalo

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

As thus I spoke
Servants announc'd the gondola, and we
Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea
Sail'd to the island where the madhouse stands.

The Song of the Banjo

© Rudyard Kipling

With my ‘Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!’
[Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]
So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop;
So I play ’em up to water and to bed.

Andrew Jones

I HATE that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village!

Drowning in Wheat

They’d been warned

on every farm

Kalaloch

Each morning the minus tide—
weeds flowed it like hair swimming.
The starfish gripped rock, pastel,
rough. Fish bones lay in sun.

Year’s End

© Lola Ridge

Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.