Time poems
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And If I Did, What Then?
© George Gascoigne
“And if I did, what then?
Are you aggriev’d therefore?
The sea hath fish for every man,
And what would you have more?”
My Son the Man
© Sharon Olds
Suddenly his shoulders get a lot wider,
the way Houdini would expand his body
King Goodheart
© William Schwenck Gilbert
There lived a King, as I've been told
In the wonder-working days of old,
To Lady H---r,
© Mary Barber
Tell me, my Patroness, and Friend,
Can Age Parnassian Heights ascend?
Sweet Poesy's light Footsteps trace?
Ah no! I must give up the Chace:
When Time the Head hath silver'd o'er,
The dear Delusion charms no more.
The Pillar Towers of Ireland
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand
By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land;
In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,
These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!
Yesterdays
© Robert Creeley
Sixty-two, sixty-three, I most remember
As time W. C. Williams dies and we are
Of The Nature Of Things: Book I - Part 03 - The Void
© Lucretius
But yet creation's neither crammed nor blocked
About by body: there's in things a void-
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 95
© Alfred Tennyson
By night we linger'd on the lawn,
For underfoot the herb was dry;
And genial warmth; and o'er the sky
The silvery haze of summer drawn;
Returning of Issue
© Henry Reed
Tomorrow will be your last day here. Someone is speaking:
A familiar voice, speaking again at all of us.
And beyond the windows it is inside now, and autumn
On a wind growing daily harsher, small things to the earth
Are turning and whirling, small. Tomorrow will be
Your last day here,
from Omeros
© Derek Walcott
In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez,
the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane
down the archipelago’s highways. The first breeze
Childhood Ideogram
© Larry Levis
I lay my head sideways on the desk,
My fingers interlocked under my cheekbones,
The Virgin Considered As A Picture
© Edgar Bowers
Her unawed face, whose pose so long assumed
Is touched with what reality we feel,
Bends to itself and, to itself resumed,
Restores a tender fiction to the real.
His Philosophy
© Edgar Albert Guest
JIM had a quaint philosophy,
"It ain't fer you, it's jes' fer me,"
After Reading Trollope's History Of Florence
© Eugene Field
My books are on their shelves again
And clouds lie low with mist and rain.
Afar the Arno murmurs low
The tale of fields of melting snow.
List to the bells of times agone
The while I wait me for the dawn.
The Eagle That Is Forgotten
© Roald Dahl
(John P. Altgeld, Governor of Illinois and my next-door neighbor, 1893-1897. Born December 30, 1847; died March 12, 1902.)
Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . . . under the stone.
Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.
Silence again
© Helen Hunt Jackson
Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
The Apple Boughs
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Round apples, burning upon the apple boughs,
As the evening flush withdraws,
Perfect and satiate, earth's completed vows,
In a stillness nothing flaws,
