Time poems
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Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go?
© William Wordsworth
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
El Harith
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Lightly took she her leave of me, Asmá--u,
went no whit as a guest who outstays a welcome;
Went forgetting our trysts, Burkát Shemmá--u,
all the joys of our love, our love's home, Khalsá--u.
Paradise Lost : Book VIII.
© John Milton
The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
The Dreamer
© Madison Julius Cawein
Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers,
And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh;
The Present Crisis
© James Russell Lowell
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast
Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime
Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.
The German Hotel
© Charles Bukowski
it's our favorite hotel and if I ever get rich I am
going to buy it and fire the night clerk and there will
be enough ice cubes and corkscrews for everybody.
Signal Service
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Time-table! Terrible and hard
To figure! At some station lonely
We see this sign upon the card:
[Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
A Basket of Flowers
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Dawn
On skies still and starlit
White lustres take hold,
And grey flushes scarlet,
A Legend of Bregenz
© Adelaide Anne Procter
GIRT round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow,
You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below!
Life is too short
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys and sorrows of each yesterday
Eclogue:--A Ghost
© William Barnes
Aye; I do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid
The farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed,
They heärd at night such scuffèns an' such jumpèns,
Such ugly naïses an' such rottlèn thumpèns.
For Weeks After the Funeral by Andrea Hollander Budy: American Life in Poetry #96 Ted Kooser, U.S. P
© Ted Kooser
Grief can endure a long, long time. A deep loss is very reluctant to let us set it aside, to push it into a corner of memory. Here the Arkansas poet, Andrea Hollander Budy, gives us a look at one family's adjustment to a death.
For Weeks After the Funeral
The house felt like the opera,
the audience in their seats, hushed, ready,
but the cast not yet arrived.
One Life
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
OH, I am hurt to death, my Love;
The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart,
The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Second
© William Wordsworth
THE Harp in lowliness obeyed;
And first we sang of the greenwood shade
And a solitary Maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,
The Hymn of the Socialists
© Henry Lawson
By the rights that were always ours the rights that we neer enjoyed,
And the gloomy cloud that lowers on the brow of the unemployed;
By the struggling mothers and wives by girls in the streets of sin
We swear to strike when the time arrives, for our kind and our kith and kin!
