Poems begining by W
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Woods
© Wendell Berry
I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
Water
© Wendell Berry
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
When I Roved A Young Highlander
© George Gordon Byron
When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!
Words
© Muriel Stuart
Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles,--
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis? --MARLOWE
What We Need Is Here
© Wendell Berry
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
Wind at Tindari
© Salvatore Quasimodo
Tindari, I know you
mild between broad hills,
overhanging the waters
of the gods sweet islands.
Today, you confront me
and break into my heart.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Winter
© William Wilfred Campbell
Already Winter in his sombre round,
Before his time, hath touched these hills austere
Weird-Bird
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Birds are flyin' south for winter.
Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north,
Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin',
Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth.
Wind
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Oh the wold, the wold,
Oh the wold, the wold!
Oh the winter stark,
Oh the level dark,
On the wold, the wold, the wold!
Whatif
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
When sorrow lays us low
© Jorge Luis Borges
Eight million Shinto deities
travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us--
touch us and move on.
When I Peruse The Conquer'd Fame
© Walt Whitman
WHEN I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes, and the victories of
mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,
