War poems
/ page 357 of 504 /
The Wanderer
© John Masefield
ALL day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmate's lips,
"The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."
The Everlasting Mercy
© John Masefield
Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer,
Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,
Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,
For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.
John Lydgate.
Death In Life
© Madison Julius Cawein
Within my veins it beats
And burns within my brain;
For when the year is sad and sear
I dream the dream again.
The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katy
© Allan Ramsay
Now wat ye wha I met yestreen
Coming down the street, my Jo,
The West Wind
© John Masefield
IT'S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
Cargoes
© John Masefield
QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Maundy Thursday
© Wilfred Owen
Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
Salve!
© Edward Thomas
TO live within a cave--it is most good;
But, if God make a day,
And some one come, and say,
'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!'
E'en let him stay,
And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!
The Terrestrial
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
The air heaving like a wounded fish,
breathing through its purplish sandy gills,
letting in the salty gale, fluttering its
violet fan-like tail, vast, culminating in the distant mesh
of mist completely ripped by the piercing starving eyes
of planets sitting in their cosmic pits
Sonnets To Europa
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Frost apple on a knotted whirling bough
of dark becoming where it cannot be.
So much both for the soil and for the tree,
so much for things that are becoming now.
In November (2)
© Archibald Lampman
With loitering step and quiet eye,
Beneath the low November sky,
I wandered in the woods, and found
A clearing, where the broken ground
Propertius
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
The dead dont know how to cry, they dont
have any hopes to lose, any illusions
to bargain for. Theyre lost
like limpid feathers of a slow bird,
too slow to make it to the other shore.
Captain Who Voyages No More
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Troubled slumbering of things, the curtain blown aside
by the gush of the salty wind, the advent of the tide
mixing grains of dry sand, the disjoined palimpsest,
the thin wing beating under the chest, restlessly,
the splinters of far-off vessels stuck in the sea,
not entering the harbour, as if they have something to hide.
Run And Won
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
When you entered the workshop, I was already here.
How many statues, and torsos, and heads !
Like remains of the battle that never ends.
I am giggling into my beard. Wind's fluffy plume
is struggling with the curtain. I know you can hear
both, not becoming distinct, no matter for whom.
A Simple Song
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Come to me with the full moon,
tell me a word or two,
all the garden will be soon
sprinkled with lustrous dew.
Jerusalem Delivered - Book 04 - part 02
© Torquato Tasso
XVII
"Among the knights and worthies of their train,
Wreath Of Sonnets
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
And if sometimes they happen to perform
Some droning dance which smells of here and now,
With springing forms and circles staying warm,
They start to tremble on a pointed prow
Of universe and dream of their home
In whirls destroying leaves to leave a bough.
Answer
© Peter Huchel
Between two nights
the brief day.
The farm is there.
And in the thicket, a snare
the hunter set for us.
The Passing Of Arthur
© Alfred Tennyson
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
Ode (From The Gaelic)
© George Borrow
Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.
Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers;
