War poems
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What Best I See In Thee
© Walt Whitman
WHAT best I see in thee,
Is not that where thou mov'st down history's great highways,
Sonnet XCII: Be Your Words Made
© Sir Philip Sidney
Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
The Third Satire Of Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Parnell
Compassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies
The tears a passage thro' my swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show,
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satyr! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satyr cur'd an old disease.
Sonnet VIII: Love, Born In Greece
© Sir Philip Sidney
Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,
Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart
Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart,
And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race.
What The Voice Said
© John Greenleaf Whittier
MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil,
"Lord!" I cried in sudden ire,
"From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder,
Shake the bolted fire!
Child's Park Stones
© Sylvia Plath
In sunless air, under pines
Green to the point of blackness, some
Founding father set these lobed, warped stones
To loom in the leaf-filtered gloom
Black as the charred knuckle-bones
Sonnet XXX: Whether the Turkish New Moon
© Sir Philip Sidney
Whether the Turkish new moon minded be
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;
How Poles' right king means, with leave of host,
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;
Indian Summer
© Sara Teasdale
Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
Thou Blind Man's Mark
© Sir Philip Sidney
Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought,
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care,
Thou web of will,whose end is never wrought.
Venetian Life
© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
The meaning of somber and barren
Venetian life is clear to me:
Now she looks into a decrepit blue glass
With a cool smile.
Come Sleep, O Sleep! The Certain Knot Of Peace
© Sir Philip Sidney
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
Sleep
© Sir Philip Sidney
Come Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
A Reading Of Life--With The Persuader
© George Meredith
So is it sung in any space
She fills, with laugh at shallow laws
Forbidding love's devised embrace,
The music Beauty from it draws.
Complaint Of Body, The Ass, Against His Rider, The Soul
© Stephen Vincent Benet
BODY
Well, here we go!
Injustice of the Courts
© Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
Whites alone upon the jury in a number of the states,
Thus they crush a helpless Negro with their prejudicial hates;
Legal ills they thrust upon him, and the tale is passing sad
Equal rights with white men? Never! Color-phobia makes them mad.
Channing
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Not vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint
God's great and crowning miracle,
The hero and the saint!
Love Poem
© Louise Gluck
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
