Poems begining by V
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Violin And A Little Nervous
© Vladimir Mayakovsky
Violin was torn to pieces begging,
And then broke out in tears
So childishly,
That Drum couldn't handle it any longer,
It's all right, it's all right, it's all right! He got tired, Not hearing out Violin's speech, and Sneaked out to the Kuznetsky, And made off. The orchestra looked strangely, as Violin cried herself out Wordless Without tempo And only somewhere Foolish Cymbals Were banging out: What is it? How is it? Then when Helicon Copper-faced Sweating Shouted: Stupid! Softy! Wipe it off! I got up, Shaking, crawled over the notes, Bending low under the horror of the pupitre, For some reason cried out, Oh, God! Threw myself at her wooden neck, Violin, you know? We are so alike: I do also Shout But still can not prove anything either! The musicians are laughing: Gotcha! He's dating a wooden girlfriend! Smart one, ha! I don't give a damn! I am worthy! You know what, Violin? Why don't we Move in together! Ha?
Venus's Looking-Glass
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I marked where lovely Venus and her court
With song and dance and merry laugh went by;
Victoria Regina
© Sir Henry Newbolt
A thousand years by sea and land
Our race hath served the island kings,
But not by custom's dull command
To-day with song her Empire rings:
Voices Of The Night : The Light Of Stars
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,
Venice
© Boris Pasternak
A click of window glass had roused me
Out of my sleep at early dawn.
Beneath me Venice swam in water;
A sodden pretzel made of stone.
Voices Of The Night : Footsteps of Angels
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night
Voices Of The Night
© Charles Stuart Calverley
The dew is on the roses,
The owl hath spread her wing;
And vocal are the noses
Of peasant and of king:
"Nature" (in short) "reposes;"
But I do no such thing.
Vain Death
© Archibald Thomas Strong
ALL the first night she might not weep
But watched till morning came,
Via Amoris
© Edith Nesbit
If this were Love why should I turn away?
Am I not, too, made of the common clay?
Is life so fair, am I so fortunate,
I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate,
The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers,
The transfiguration of my earthly hours?
Visit Of The Wrens
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
FLYING from out the gusty west,
To seek the place where last year's nest,
Ragged, and torn by many a rout
Of winter winds, still rocks about
Villanelle
© William Ernest Henley
A dainty thing's the Villanelle.
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.
Vision of Belshazzar
© George Gordon Byron
The King was on his throne,
The Satraps throng'd the hall:
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
Venus Anadyomene
© Arthur Rimbaud
Out of what seems a coffin made of tin
A head protrudes; a woman's, dark with grease -
Out of a bathtub! - slowly; then a fat face
With ill-concealed defects upon the skin.
Vultures
© Padraic Colum
FOUL-FEATHERED and scald-necked,
They sit in evil state;
Raw marks upon their breasts
As on men's wearing chains.
Violets
© George Meredith
Violets, shy violets!
How many hearts with you compare!
Who hide themselves in thickest green,
And thence, unseen,
Ravish the enraptured air
With sweetness, dewy fresh and rare!
Venice
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
WHILE the skies of this northern November
Scowl down with a darkening menace,
I wonder if you still remember
That marvellous summer in Venice.
Vengeance Is Sweet
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
When I was young I longed for Love,
And held his glory far above
Violet Moore and Bert Moore
© Conrad Aiken
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
