Time poems

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Beds of icicles protrude from tussock bare patches,
needle pointed lances thrusting skyward
as if some new sprung lawn,
awaiting the crushing blows of booted feet,
soon to wilt in the onslaught of day.

Warble Of Lilac-Time

© Walt Whitman

My mind henceforth, and all its meditations-my recitatives,
My land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs,
(Sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life,)
To grace the bush I love-to sing with the birds,
A warble for joy of Lilac-time.

The Black Cottage

© Robert Frost

We chanced in passing by that afternoon

To catch it in a sort of special picture

The True Man

© Edgar Albert Guest

This is the sort of a man was he:
True when it hurt him a lot to be;
Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lie
Would have helped him out, but he wouldn't buy
His freedom there in so cheap a way--
He told the truth though he had to pay.

Stepping Westward

© Denise Levertov

What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to

Zeroing In

© Denise Levertov

"I am a landscape," he said,
"a landscape and a person walking in that landscape.
There are daunting cliffs there,
and plains glad in their way

Sonnet. To A Lady Seen For A Few Moments At Vauxhall

© John Keats

Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,
And snared by the ungloving of thine hand.

In Memory Of Charles Wentworth Upham, Jr.

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

HE was all sunshine; in his face
The very soul of sweetness shone;
Fairest and gentlest of his race;
None like him we can call our own.

The Great Black Heron

© Denise Levertov

Since I stroll in the woods more often
than on this frequented path, it's usually
trees I observe; but among fellow humans
what I like best is to see an old woman

September 1961

© Denise Levertov

This is the year the old ones,
the old great ones
leave us alone on the road.

The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart...

© Denise Levertov

Turn from that road's beguiling ease; return
to your hunger's turret. Enter, climb the stair
chill with disuse, where the croaking toad of time
regards from shimmering eyes your slow ascent

Contraband

© Denise Levertov

The tree of knowledge was the tree of reason.
That's why the taste of it
drove us from Eden. That fruit
was meant to be dried and milled to a fine powder

An Embroidery

Rose Red's hair is brown as fur
and shines in firelight as she prepares
supper of honey and apples, curds and whey,
for the bear, and leaves it ready
on the hearth-stone.