War poems

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Le Flacon (The Perfume Flask)

© Charles Baudelaire

II est de forts parfums pour qui toute matière
Est poreuse. On dirait qu'ils pénètrent le verre.
En ouvrant un coffret venu de l'Orient
Dont la serrure grince et rechigne en criant,

The King's Tragedy James I. Of Scots.20th February 1437

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I Catherine am a Douglas born,

A name to all Scots dear;

Lullaby

© Lola Ridge

Rock-a-by baby, woolly and brown…
(There's a shout at the door an' a big red light…)
Lil' coon baby, mammy is down…
Han's that hold yuh are steady an' white…

The Dome Of Sunday

© Karl Shapiro

With focus sharp as Flemish-painted face

In film of varnish brightly fixed

Ode Written For The Celebration Of The Cochituate Water Into The City Of Boston

My name is Water: I have sped
Through strange, dark ways, untried before,
By pure desire of friendship led,
Cochituate's ambassador;
He sends four royal gifts by me:
Long life, health, peace, and purity.

To Revery

© Madison Julius Cawein

What ogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought,

What walls of bastioned Parian, lucid rose,

To-morrow I'm Losing My Darling

© Anonymous

CHORUS
Oh, bother the missus, and bother her tongue,
And bother her snapping and snarling;
Through wagging her jaws, without any cause,
To-morrow I'm losing my darling.

Scorn Not The Least

© Robert Southwell

WHERE wards are weak and foes encount'ring strong,
Where mightier do assault than do defend,
The feebler part puts up enforc'd wrong,
And silent sees that speech could not amend.
Yet higher powers must think, though they repine,
When sun is set, the little stars will shine.

Poem At The Centennial Anniversary Dinner Of The Massachusetts Medical Society

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

Each has his gifts, his losses and his gains,
Each his own share of pleasures and of pains;
No life-long aim with steadfast eye pursued
Finds a smooth pathway all with roses strewed;
Trouble belongs to man of woman born,--
Tread where he may, his foot will find its thorn.

Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe by Bill Holm: American Life in Poetry #90 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet

© Ted Kooser

Anyone can write a poem that nobody can understand, but poetry is a means of communication, and this column specializes in poems that communicate. What comes more naturally to us than to instruct someone in how to do something? Here the Minnesota poet and essayist Bill Holm, who is of Icelandic parentage, shows us how to make something delicious to eat.

Briggflatts - Part I

© Basil Bunting

The ToySeller

The Toy--seller his idle wares
Carefully ranges, side by side;
With coveting soft earnest airs
The children linger, open--eyed.

On The Vita Nuova Of Dante

AS he that loves oft looks on the dear form

And guesses how it grew to womanhood,

The Falcon

Fair Princesse of the spacious air,
That hast vouchsaf'd acquaintance here,
With us are quarter'd below stairs,
That can reach heav'n with nought but pray'rs;
Who, when our activ'st wings we try,
Advance a foot into the sky.

Supper at the Mill

© Jean Ingelow

Frances.
Well, good mother, how are you?
M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:
I think 'tis mostly warm on market-days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,
"Mother, go in and rest a while."