Weather poems
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Sappho
© James Wright
The twilight falls; I soften the dusting feathers,
And clean again.
The house has lain and moldered for three days.
The windows smeared with rain, the curtains torn,
The mice come in,
The kitchen blown with cold.
Quiet Dead!
© George MacDonald
Quiet, quiet dead,
Have ye aught to say
From your hidden bed
In the earthy clay?
The Ghost
© Richard Harris Barham
There stands a City,- neither large nor small,
Its air and situation sweet and pretty;
Vanity Fair
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
In Vanity Fair, as we bow and smile,
As we talk of the opera after the weather,
Isle Of Wight--Spring, 1891
© Horace Smith
I know not what the cause may be,
Or whether there be one or many;
But this year's Spring has seemed to me
More exquisite than any.
Exorcism
© Robert Friend
I know who's scratching at the door.
Clock, there's no use yawning.
More than boards are loose in the floor
I wasn't born this morning.
Bixby’s Landing
© Robinson Jeffers
They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down here in an iron car
On a long cable; here the ships warped in
from Omeros
© Derek Walcott
In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez,
the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane
down the archipelago’s highways. The first breeze
Curriculum Vitae
© Anthony Evan Hecht
As though it were reluctant to be day,
…….Morning deploys a scale
…….Of rarities in gray,
And winter settles down in its chain-mail,
Agoraphobia
© Linda Pastan
"Yesterday the bird of night did sit,
Even at noon-day, upon the marketplace,
Hooting and shrieking."
—William Shakespeare
Eight Variations
© Weldon Kees
1.
Prurient tapirs gamboled on our lawns,
But that was quite some time ago.
Now one is accosted by asthmatic bulldogs,
Sluggish in the hedges, ruminant.
La Figlia che Piange
© Thomas Stearns Eliot
O quam te memorem virgo ...
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Venus And Adonis
© William Shakespeare
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.
RIGHT HONORABLE,
The Choosing Of Valentines
© Thomas Nashe
It was the merie moneth of Februarie,
When yong men, in their iollie roguerie,
Rose earelie in the morne fore breake of daie,
To seeke them valentines soe trimme and gaie;
Travel Papers
© Carolyn Forche
Au silence de celle qui laisse rêveur.
—René Char
By boat to Seurasaari where
the small fish were called vendace.
A man blew a horn of birchwood
toward the nightless sea.
