Time poems
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Seventh Ode Of The Fourth Book Of Horace
© James Clerk Maxwell
All the snows have fled, and grass springs up on the meadows,
And there are leaves on the trees;
To The Poet Cowper, On His Recovery From An Indisposition
© Charles Lamb
WRITTEN SOME TIME BACK.
Cowper, I thank my God that thou art healed.
The Boss's Boots
© Henry Lawson
The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do
And wore, until the shed cut out, one side-spring and one shoe;
And though he changed his pants at timessome worn-out and some neat
No tiger there could possibly mistake the Bosss feet.
Fixing The Shame
© Edgar Albert Guest
They put him in jail for the thing he'd done,
For that was the law they'd made;
Shakespeare
© Henry Ames Blood
There, too, that Spanish galleon of a hulk,
Ben Jonson, lying at full length,
Should so dispose his goodly bulk
That he might lie at ease upon his back,
To test the tone and strength
Of Bonifaces sherris-sack.
The Fairy Of The Fountains
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
And a youthful warrior stands
Gazing not upon those bands,
Not upon the lovely scene,
But upon its lovelier queen,
Who with gentle word and smile
Courteous prays his stay awhile.
Sonnet 105: Unhappy Sight
© Sir Philip Sidney
Unhappy sight, and hath she vanish'd by
So near, in so good time, so free a place?
Dead glass, dost thou thy object so embrace,
As what my heart still sees thou canst not spy?
Anne Hathaway's Cottage
© Mathilde Blind
IS this the Cottage, ivy-girt and crowned,
And this the path down which our Shakespeare ran,
Washington and Lincoln
© Henry Clay Work
Come, happy people! Oh come let us tell
The story of Washington and Lincoln!
A Hero's Grave
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Why should I weep? The grass is grass, the weeds
Are weeds. The emmet hath done thus ere now.
I tear a leaf; the green blood that it bleeds
Is cold. What have I here? Where, where, art thou,
My son, my son?
Drought by Felecia Caton Garcia: American Life in Poetry #111 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20
© Ted Kooser
As poet Felecia Caton Garcia of New Mexico shows us in this moving poem, there are times when parents feel helpless and hopeless. But the human heart is remarkable and, like a dry creek bed, somehow fills again, is renewed and restored.
Drought
Try to remember: things go wrong in spite of it all.
I listen to our daughters singing in the crackling rows
of corn and wonder why I don't love them more.
They move like dark birds, small mouths open
I Was Again Beside Thee In A Dream
© Mathilde Blind
I was again beside thee in a dream:
Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining;
The muffled voice of many a cataract stream
Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining,
Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.
The Better Day
© Archibald Lampman
Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands,
That keep this restless world at strife,
Mean passions that, like choking sands,
Perplex the stream of life,
The Voices Of The Death Chamber
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
The night lamp is faintly gleaming
Within my chamber still,
In The Carolinas
© Wallace Stevens
The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
Already the new-born children interpret love
In the voices of mothers.
Song Of Despair
© Pablo Neruda
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
The Stealing Of The Mare - II
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Said the Narrator:
And when Abu Zeyd had made an end of speaking, and the Kadi Diab and the Sultan and Rih, and all had happened as hath been said, then the Emir Abu Zeyd mounted his running camel and bade farewell to the Arabs and was gone; and all they who remained behind were in fear thinking of his journey. But Abu Zeyd went on alone, nor stayed he before he came to the pastures of the Agheylat. And behold, in the first of their vallies as he journeyed onward the slaves of the Agheylat saw him and came upon him, threatening him with their spears, and they said to him, ``O Sheykh, who and what art thou, and what is thy story, and the reason of thy coming?'' And he said to them, ``O worthy men of the Arabs, I am a poet, of them that sing the praise of the generous and the blame of the niggardly.'' And they answered him, ``A thousand welcomes, O poet.'' And they made him alight and treated him with honour until night came upon their feasting, nor did he depart from among them until the night had advanced to a third, but remained with them, singing songs of praise, and reciting lettered phrases, until they were stirred by his words and astonished at his eloquence. And at the end of all he arrived at the praise of the Agheyli Jaber. Then stopped they him and said: ``He of whom thou speakest is the chieftain of our people, and he is a prince of the generous. Go thou, therefore, to him, and he shall give thee all, even thy heart's desire.'' And he answered them, ``Take ye care of my camel and keep her for me while I go forward to recite his praises, and on my return we will divide the gifts.'' And he left them. And as he went he set himself to devise a plan by which he might enter into the camp and entrap the Agheyli Jaber.
And the Narrator singeth of Abu Zeyd and of the herdsmen thus:
Metho Drinker
© Judith Wright
Under the death of winter's leaves he lies
who cried to Nothing and the terrible night
to be his home and bread. "O take from me
the weight and waterfall ceaseless Time
