Poems begining by W
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Written at Dropmore
© Samuel Rogers
Grenville, to thee my gratitude is due
For many an hour of studious musing here,
Where She Told Her Love
© John Clare
I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away
Why Blossoms Fall
© Alma Frances McCollum
Dear Mother Earth her children trees
Clad well in robes of white,
That they may rest in perfect peace
Through all the winter night.
What Is Life?
© John Clare
And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute's pause, a moment's thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
Wild Dark Love Song
© Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Her man,
A wild dark love song
Borne deep within her gypsy soul
Hes gone to live in jagged mountains
When First I Came Here
© 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
Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life
© Henry David Thoreau
Within the circuit of this plodding life
There enter moments of an azure hue,
We Flash Across The Level
© William Ernest Henley
We flash across the level.
We thunder thro' the bridges.
We bicker down the cuttings.
We sway along the ridges.
William Street
© Kenneth Slessor
The red globe of light, the liquor green,
the pulsing arrows and the running fire
spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely
Who Ever Felt As I
© Walter Savage Landor
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
Wallace Ferguson
© Edgar Lee Masters
There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above
The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown
Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone
Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock;
Written For My Son In His Sickness, To One Of His School fellows.
© Mary Barber
I little thought that honest Dick
Would slight me so, when I was sick.
Is he a Friend, who only stays,
Whilst Health and Pleasure gild our Days;
Flies, when Disease our Temper sours,
Nor helps to pass the gloomy Hours?
William Jones
© Edgar Lee Masters
Once in a while a curious weed unknown to me,
Needing a name from my books;
Once in a while a letter from Yeomans.
Out of the mussel-shells gathered along the shore
With Mercy for the Greedy
© Anne Sexton
I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter… deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.
Willie Metcalf
© Edgar Lee Masters
I was Willie Metcalf.
They used to call me "Doctor Meyers"
Because, they said, I looked like him.
And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire.
W. Lloyd Garrison Standard
© Edgar Lee Masters
Vegetarian, non-resistant, free-thinker, in ethics a Christian;
Orator apt at the rhine-stone rhythm of Ingersoll.
Carnivorous, avenger, believer and pagan.
Continent, promiscuous, changeable, treacherous, vain,
Widow McFarlane
© Edgar Lee Masters
I was the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village.
And I pity you still at the loom of life,
You who are singing to the shuttle
William Goode
© Edgar Lee Masters
To all in the village I seemed, no doubt,
To go this way and that way, aimlessly.
But here by the river you can see at twilight
The soft-winged bats fly zig-zag here and there --
