TRAVELLER
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,
Mad River, O Mad River?
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er
This rocky shelf forever?

The Education of a Poet by Leslie Monsour: American Life in Poetry #61 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureat

Everywhere I travel I meet people who want to write poetry but worry that what they write won't be "any good." No one can judge the worth of a poem before it's been written, and setting high standards for yourself can keep you from writing. And if you don't write you'll miss out on the pleasure of making something from words, of seeing your thoughts on a page. Here Leslie Monsour offers a concise snapshot of a self-censoring poet.

The Spagnoletto. Act III

© Emma Lazarus

RIBERA (laying aside his brush).
So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?

Daphne

© George Meredith

Musing on the fate of Daphne,
Many feelings urged my breast,
For the God so keen desiring,
And the Nymph so deep distrest.

To a Lady Before Marriage

© Thomas Tickell

Oh! form'd by Nature, and refin'd by Art,

With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart!

English Eclogues II - The Grandmother's Tale

© Robert Southey

JANE.
Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us
One of her stories.

The Prophecy Of Famine

Still have I known thee for a silly swain;
Of things past help, what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;
No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured,
So Donald right areads, must be endured.

Written With A Slate Pencil On A Stone, On The Side Of The Mountain Of Black Comb

STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence,--from blackness named,

The Lady of the Lake: Canto III. - The Gathering

I.
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,
Who danced our infancy upon their knee,
And told our marvelling boyhood legends store

What Sayest Thou, Traveller

What sayst thou, traveller, of all thou saw'st afar?
On every tree hangs boredom, ripening to its fall,
Didst gather it, thou smoking yon thy sad cigar,
Black, casting an incongruous shadow on the wall?