Poems begining by W
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Wherein Obscurely
© Charles Simic
On the road with billowing poplars,
In a country flat and desolate
To the far-off gray horizon, wherein obscurely,
A man and a woman went on foot,
When the Irish Flag Went By
© Henry Lawson
TWAS Eight-Hour Day, and proudly
Old Labour led the way;
Whitsuntide An Club Walken
© William Barnes
Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Meäry
Got up betimes to mind the deäiry;
Windflowers
© Edith Nesbit
When I was little and good
I walked in the dappled wood
Where light white windflowers grew,
And hyacinths heavy and blue.
Written in Northampton County Asylum
© John Clare
I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I amI livethough I am tossd
What The Lord Saith
© George MacDonald
Trust my father, saith the eldest-born;
I did trust him ere the earth began;
Not to know him is to be forlorn;
Not to love him is-not to be man.
Waking in the Blue
© Robert Lowell
In between the limits of day,
hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts
and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle
of the Roman Catholic attendants.
(There are no Mayflower
screwballs in the Catholic Church.)
Wodwo
© Ted Hughes
What am I? Nosing here, turning leaves over
Following a faint stain on the air to the river's edge
Water
© Robert Lowell
It was a Maine lobster town
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
Written Shortly After The Marriage Of Miss Chaworth
© George Gordon Byron
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted shade!
What I have learned
© David Holbrook
As I walked through life I've realized
Not everyone truly lives, but in the end we all must die
Winter in the Country
© Claude McKay
Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'
Wild May
© Claude McKay
Aleta mentions in her tender letters,
Among a chain of quaint and touching things,
That you are feeble, weighted down with fetters,
And given to strange deeds and mutterings.
When Dawn Comes to the City
© Claude McKay
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The moaning, groaning cars,
And the old milk carts go rumbling by
Under the same dull stars.
When Someone Says:
© Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
When someone says: "Alexandria,"
I see the white walls of a house,
a small garden row of gillyflowers,
an autumn evening's pale sunlight
and hear the music of distant flutes.
Wattle Blossom - Excerpt
© Margaret Curran
'In bleak Toowoomba gardens, swept of flowers,
By cold west winds and withering with drought,
