Time poems
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Welsh Incident
© Robert Graves
'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
A Fallen Yew
© Francis Thompson
It seemed corrival of the world's great prime,
Made to un-edge the scythe of Time,
And last with stateliest rhyme.
To Lucasta on Going to the War - For the Fourth Time
© Robert Graves
It doesnt matter whats the cause,
What wrong they say were righting,
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,
When were to do the fighting!
Antonio Melidori
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
SCENE I.
[A place not far from the summit of Mount Psiloriti, in the Isle of Candia. Philota discovered with a basket of grapes upon her head; she looks eagerly upward. Time, a little before sunset.]
PHILOTA.
Love and Black Magic
© Robert Graves
To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone;
In his grotto the maiden sits alone.
She gazes up with a weary smile
At the rafter-hanging crocodile,
Mans Discontent
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
And the languid breeze was perfumed by a rose's stolen breath;
'Twas the last white bud of Summer that escaped the hand of death,
And my sweet, I feared to meet her for my yesterday of scorn;
Then I flung myself beside her as she knelt amid the corn.
She only said To red and gold grew the green young leaf of Spring.
The rose filled the dead cowslip's throne; now poppy reigns a king.
Forgotten
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
FORGOTTEN! Can it be a few swift rounds
Of Time's great chariot wheels have crushed to naught
The memory of those fearful sights and sounds,
With speechless misery fraught--
Wherethro' we hope to gain the Hesperian height,
Where Freedom smiles in light?
To Juan at the Winter Solstice
© Robert Graves
There is one story and one story only
That will prove worth your telling,
Whether as learned bard or gifted child;
To it all lines or lesser gauds belong
That startle with their shining
Such common stories as they stray into.
The Beast
© Sylvia Plath
He won't be got rid of:
Memblepaws, teary and sorry,
Fido Littlesoul, the bowel's unfamiliar.
A dustbin's enough for him.
The dark's his bone.
Call him any name, he'll come to it.
Counting The Beats
© Robert Graves
You, love, and I,
(He whispers) you and I,
And if no more than only you and I
What care you or I?
The Familist's Hymn
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Father! to Thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
Wild Strawberries
© Robert Graves
Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.
Christmas At The Round Table
© John Hookham Frere
The great King Arthur made a royal feast,
And held his Royal Christmas at Carlisle,
Phantasy
© George Meredith
Within a Temple of the Toes,
Where twirled the passionate Wili,
I saw full many a market rose,
And sighed for my village lily.
The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Sixth
© William Wordsworth
WHY comes not Francis?--From the doleful City
He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
The Admirers Of The Little Box
© Vasko Popa
In your four-sided emptiness
We turn distance into nearness
Forgetfulness into memory
The Owners Of The Little Box
© Vasko Popa
Line the inside of the little box
With your precious skin
And make yourself cozy
Just as you would in your own home
