Poems begining by V
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Verses on Sir Joshua Reynold's Painted Window at New College, Oxford
© Thomas Warton
Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window's height,
To add new lustre to religious light:
Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine,
But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine:
With arts unknown before, to reconcile
The willing Graces to the Gothic pile.
Victory
© Adrienne Rich
Suddenly instead of art we're eyeing
organisms traced and stained on cathedral transparencies
cruel blues embroidered purples succinct yellows
a beautiful tumor
Viroconium
© Webb Mary
Virocon -- Virocon --Still the ancient name rings onAnd brings, in the untrampled wheat,The tumult of a thousand feet.
V. The Soldier
© Rupert Brooke
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Voyelles
© Arthur Rimbaud
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantesQui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,
Villanelle of Ye Young Poet's First Villanelle to his Ladye and Ye Difficulties Thereof
© O'Neill Eugene
To sing the charms of Rosabelle,To pour my soul out at her feet,I try to write this villanelle.
Voice of the Twentieth Century
© Robert Norwood
Voice of our Century, whose heart is broken,Weeping for those who will not come again--Lord Christ! hast thou been crucified in vain?--Challenge the right of every Tyrant's token:The fist of mail; the sceptre; ancient, oakenCoffers of gold for which thy sons are slain;The pride of place, which from the days of CainHath for the empty right of Power spoken!
Be like a trumpet blown from clouds of doomAgainst whatever seeks to bind on earth;Bring from the blood of battle, from the wombOf women weeping for their dead, the birthOf better days with banishment of wrong,Love in all hearts, on every lip--a song
Vitai Lampada
© Newbolt Henry John
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- Ten to make and the match to win--A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in
Verses Wrote on her Death-Bed at Bath, to her Husband, in London
© Mary Monck
THOU, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy :Thou tend'rest husband, and thou best of friends,To thee this first, this last adieu I send
View from a Suburban Window
© Phyllis McGinley
When I consider how my light is spent, Also my sweetness, ditto all my power,
Vagabond
© John Masefield
Dunno a heap about the what an' why, Can't say's I ever knowed.Heaven to me's a fair blue stretch of sky, Earth's jest a dusty road.
Very Sad Song
© Macpherson Jay
I cannot claim I rise to weep,But oh, the burden of my dayWould make an angel turn away:I’d rather be in bed asleep.
Villanelle of Mutton
© MacInnes Tom
Very sick and tired am I Of stewed prunes, and apples dried,And this our mutton that once was lamb!
Virgidemiarum: Book I, Satire III
© Joseph Hall
With some pot-fury, ravish'd from their wit,They sit and muse on some no-vulgar writ:As frozen dunghills in a winter's morn,That void of vapours seemed all beforn,Soon as the sun sends out his piercing beams,Exhale out filthy smoke and stinking steams;So doth the base, and the fore-barren brain,Soon as the raging wine begins to reign
VI Mon. August [1742] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
The Busy-Man's Picture BUSINESS, thou Plague and Pleasure of my Life,Thou charming Mistress, thou vexatious Wife;Thou Enemy, thou Friend, to Joy, to Grief,Thou bring'st me all, and bring'st me no Relief,Thou bitter, sweet, thou pleasing, teazing Thing,Thou Bee, that with thy Honey wears a Sting;Some Respite, prithee do, yet do not give,I cannot with thee, nor without thee live
V Mon. July [1747] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
Men drop so fast, ere Life's mid Stage we tread,Few know so many Friends alive as dead;Yet, as immortal, in our uphill Chace,We press coy Fortune with unslacken'd Pace;Our ardent Labours for the Toy we seek,Join Night to Day, and Sunday to the Week,Our very Joys are anxious, and expireBetween Satiety and fierce Desire
