Poems begining by V

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Villon

© Siegfried Sassoon

They threw me from the gates: my matted hair
Was dank with dungeon wetness; my spent frame
Oerlaid with marish agues: everywhere
Tortured by leaping pangs of frost and flame,

Vision

© Siegfried Sassoon

I love all things that pass: their briefness is
Music that fades on transient silences.
Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall
They fling delight across the world; they call

Voices of the Air

© Katherine Mansfield

But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.

Villa Pauline

© Katherine Mansfield

But, ah! before he came
You were only a name:
Four little rooms and a cupboard
Without a bone,

Very Early Spring

© Katherine Mansfield

The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.

V.R. 1819-1901 (A Reverie.)

© Thomas Hardy

Moments the mightiest pass calendared,
And when the Absolute
In backward Time outgave the deedful word
Whereby all life is stirred:

Valenciennes

© Thomas Hardy

WE trenched, we trumpeted and drummed,
And from our mortars tons of iron hummed
Ath'art the ditch, the month we bombed
The Town o' Valencie?n.

Vivien

© Alan Seeger

Her eyes under their lashes were blue pools
Fringed round with lilies; her bright hair unfurled
Clothed her as sunshine clothes the summer world.
Her robes were gauzes -- gold and green and gules,

Virginibus Puerisque . . .

© Alan Seeger

I care not that one listen if he lives
For aught but life's romance, nor puts above
All life's necessities the need to love,
Nor counts his greatest wealth what Beauty gives.

Villanelle Of Spring Bells

© Keith Douglas

Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

Vergissmeinnicht

© Keith Douglas

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.

Villeggiature

© Edith Nesbit

My window, framed in pear-tree bloom,
White-curtained shone, and softly lighted:
So, by the pear-tree, to my room
Your ghost last night climbed uninvited.

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit

Voices Of the Night

Pleasant it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;

V

Next millennium you'll have to search quite hard
to find my slab behind the family dead,
butcher, publican, and baker, now me, bard
adding poetry to their beef, beer and bread.