Poems begining by W
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What My House Would Be Like If It Were A Person
© Denise Levertov
This person would be an animal.
This animal would be large, at least as large
Winter Dawn
© Kenneth Slessor
At five I wake, rise, rub on the smoking pane
A port to see—water breathing in the air,
White Oxen
© Louis Simpson
A man walks beside them
with a whip that he cracks.
The cart they draw is painted
with Saracens and Crusaders,
fierce eyes and ranks of spears.
Written in her French Psalter
© Queen Elizabeth I
No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind.
Where Will I Find You
© John Gould Fletcher
Where, Lord, will I find you:
your place is high and obscured.
And where
won’t I find you:
White hair does not weigh
© Samuel Menashe
more than the black
which it displaces
Upon any fine day
I jump these traces
Way-Station
© Archibald MacLeish
Only its darkness.
From the deep
Dark a voice calls like a voice in sleep
"Who is Silvia?"
© William Shakespeare
Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.
When She Wouldn’t
© Wesley McNair
When her recorded voice on the phone
said who she was again and again to the piles
of newspapers and magazines and the clothes
White-Eyes
© Michael Ondaatje
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
Work without Hope
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Lines Composed 21st February 1825
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
Workshop
© Billy Collins
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
Wingfoot Lake
© Rita Dove
to God.) Where she came from
was the past, 12 miles into town
where nobody had locked their back door,
and Goodyear hadn’t begun to dream of a park
under the company symbol, a white foot
sprouting two small wings.
Writ on the Steps of Puerto Rican Harlem
© Gregory Corso
I learned life were no dream
I learned truth deceived
Man is not God
Life is a century
Death an instant
