War poems

 / page 272 of 504 /
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Sacred And Profane Love

© Alfred Austin

Profane Love speaks
``I am the Goddess mortals call Profane,
Yet worship me as though I were divine;
Over their lives, unrecognised, I reign,
For all their thoughts are mine.

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Beowulf (Old English version)

© Pierre Reverdy

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum,

þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,

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A Winter-Evening Hymn To My Fire

© James Russell Lowell

I

Beauty on my hearth-stone blazing!

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Songs from The Beggar’s Opera: Air XVI-“Over the Hills, and Far Away”

© John Gay

Act I, Scene xiii, Air XVI—“Over the Hills, and Far Away”


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Epistle from Mrs. Yonge to Her Husband

© Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Think not this paper comes with vain pretense


To move your pity, or to mourn th’ offense.

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Dolcino To Margaret

© Charles Kingsley

The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet wife:
No, never come over again.

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For three whose reflex was yes

© Richard Jones

Nobody I know is a god. A mother and son 

fall into the river's million hands, the river's 

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O-Jazz-O War Memoir: Jazz, Don’t Listen To It At Your Own Risk

© Bob Kaufman

In the beginning, in the wet

Warm dark place,

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Jerusalem Delivered - Book 04 - part 06

© Torquato Tasso

LXXXI

"Ah! be it not pardie declared in France,

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The Test of Fantasy

© Joanne Kyger

It unfolds and ripples like a banner, downward.  All the stories
come folding out.  The smells and flowers begin to come back, as
the tapestry is brightly colored and brocaded.  Rabbits and violets.

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from The Shepheardes Calender: October

© Edmund Spenser

The dapper ditties, that I wont devise,
To feede youthes fancie, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much: what I the bett for thy?
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise.
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?

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Brighter Shone The Golden Shadows

© Louisa May Alcott

Brighter shone the golden shadows;

  On the cool wind softly came

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Bab—Lock—Hythe

© Robert Laurence Binyon

In the time of wild roses
As up Thames we travelled
Where 'mid water--weeds ravelled
The lily uncloses,

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The Archbishop And Gil Blas

© Oliver Wendell Holmes


I DON'T think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray,
But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day.
I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink,
But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

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Change

© Letitia Elizabeth Landon

And this is what is left of youth! . . .


There were two boys, who were bred up together,

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The Shires

© John Fuller

Bedfordshire

A blue bird showing off its undercarriage 

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kitchenette building

© Gwendolyn Brooks

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

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Bird Parliament (translation of)

© Edward Fitzgerald

And first, with Heart so full as from his Eyes
Ran weeping, up rose Tajidar the Wise;
The mystic Mark upon whose Bosom show'd
That He alone of all the Birds THE ROAD
Had travell'd: and the Crown upon his Head
Had reach'd the Goal; and He stood forth and said:

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Fragen

© Bertolt Brecht

Schreib mir, was du anhast! Ist es warm?
Schreib mir, wie du liegst! Liegst du auch weich?
Schreib mir, wie du aussiehst! Ist´s noch gleich?
Schreib mir, was dir fehlt! Ist es mein Arm?

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The Dome of Sunday

© Ishmael Reed

As if one life emerging from one house
Would pause, a single image caught between
Two facing mirrors where vision multiplies
Beyond perspective,
A silent clatter in the high-speed eye
Spinning out photo-circulars of sight.