Poems begining by W
/ page 60 of 113 /
Woman and Child
© Judith Beveridge
They listen to the myna birds dicker in the grass.
The child’s blue shoes are caked with
We shall enjoy it
© Sappho
We shall enjoy it
as for him who finds
fault, may silliness
and sorrow take him!
When Heaving On The Stormy Waters
© Fyodor Sologub
When, heaving on the stormy waters,
I felt my ship beneath to sink,
I prayed, "Oh, Father Satan, save me,
Forgive me at death's utter brink!
William Blake
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
THIS is the place. Even here the dauntless soul,
The unflinching hand, wrought on; till in that nook,
When on the Marge of Evening
© Louise Imogen Guiney
When on the marge of evening the last blue light is broken,
And winds of dreamy odour are loosened from afar,
Or when my lattice opens, before the lark hath spoken,
On dim laburnum-blossoms, and morning’s dying star,
What Is Flirtation?
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
What is flirtation? Really,
How can I tell you that?
But when she smiles I see its wiles,
And when he lifts his hat.
Womanhood, wanton, ye want
© Alice Walker
Womanhood, wanton, ye want:
Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;
where you are planted
© Evie Shockley
he’s as high as a georgia pine, my father’d say, half laughing. southern trees
as measure, metaphor. highways lined with kudzu-covered southern trees.
When First
© Edward Thomas
When first I came here I had hope,
Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat
My heart at the sight of the tall slope
Or grass and yews, as if my feet
Window
© Czeslaw Milosz
I looked out the window at dawn and saw a young apple tree
translucent in brightness.
Wind Of The Night
© William Henry Ogilvie
Hark to the high wind's hunting horn!
The hounds of the night run mute and fast,
You may hear a branch from the beech-tree torn
As the Field goes tramping past ;
Where the moonlit miles lie silver white,
Luck to your hunting, wind of the night!
Well, You Needn’t
© William Matthews
Rather than hold his hands properly
arched off the keys, like cats
with their backs up,
Monk, playing block chords,
hit the keys with his fingertips well
above his wrists,
waiting on the mayflower
© Evie Shockley
“what, to the american slave, is your 4th of july?”
—frederick douglass
White Heliotrope
© Ogden Nash
The feverish room and that white bed,
The tumbled skirts upon a chair,
The novel flung half-open, where
Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints are spread;
Written at an Inn at Henley
© William Shenstone
To thee, fair Freedom! I retire,
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Wormwood And Nightshade
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
The troubles of life are many,
The pleasures of life are few;
When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,
I dreamt that the skies were blue -
Winter Roses
© John Greenleaf Whittier
My garden roses long ago
Have perished from the leaf-strewn walks;
Their pale, fair sisters smile no more
Upon the sweet-brier stalks.
