Poems begining by W
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We Cover TheeSweet Face
© Emily Dickinson
And blame the scanty love
We were Content to show
AugmentedSweeta Hundred fold
If Thou would'st take itnow
West Wind In Winter
© Alice Meynell
Another day awakes. And who -
Changing the world-is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
Surprises of his kiss.
Well Said, Davy
© John Fuller
He went to the city and goosed all the girls
With a stall on his finger for whittling the wills
To a clause in his favour and Come to me Sally,
One head in my chambers and one up your alley
And I am as old as my master.
When To The Attractions Of The Busy World
© William Wordsworth
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
With Antecedents
© Walt Whitman
I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews;
I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god;
I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without
exception;
Where the Blue Begins
© Sonia Sanchez
In the southern Adriatic, where the blue begins,
We came to rest awhile and play
Whence?
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
EERILY the wind doth blow
Through the woodland hollow;
Eërily forlorn and low,
Tremulous echoes follow!
"Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I"
© William Shakespeare
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
Wandering At Morn
© Walt Whitman
There ponder'd, felt I,
If worms, snakes, loathsome grubs, may to sweet spiritual songs be
turn'd,
If vermin so transposed, so used, so bless'd may be,
“Where does such tenderness come from?”
© Marina Tsvetaeva
Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.
Wasted Days
© Oscar Wilde
A fair slim boy not made for this world's pain.
With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears,
When You Are Old
© William Butler Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
© Patrick Kavanagh
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
Waiting
© William Ernest Henley
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
(We both live in the same village...)
© Anselm Hollo
We both live in the same village and that is our one piece of joy.
The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze near the shade of our garden.
If they stray into our barley field I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjuna, and Anjana they call our river;
My name is known to all the village and her name is Ranjana.
When to Her Lute Corinna Sings
© Thomas Campion
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Evn with her sighs the strings do break.
