Weather poems
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The Broken Tryst
© James Russell Lowell
Walking alone where we walked together,
When June was breezy and blue,
I watch in the gray autumnal weather
The leaves fall inconstant as you.
The Drovers
© Henry Lawson
Shrivelled leather, rusty buckles, and the rot is in our knuckles,
Scorched for months upon the pommel while the brittle rein hung free;
Patient Mercy Jones
© James Thomas Fields
Let us venerate the bones
Of patient Mercy Jones,
Who lies underneath these stones.
Poem Of Poverty
© Millosh Gjergj Nikolla
Poverty's child is raised in the shadows
Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach
To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords
Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies.
Working People
© Arthur Rimbaud
O that warm February morning!
The untimely south came
to stir up our absurd paupers' memories,
our young distress.
The Conversation In The Drawing Room
© Weldon Kees
That spot of blood on the drawing room wall,
No larger than a thumbnail when I looked a moment ago,
Is spreading, Cousin Agatha, and growing brighter.
The Dreams That Came True
© Jean Ingelow
I saw in a vision once, our mother-sphere
The world, her fixed foredooméd oval tracing,
Rolling and rolling on and resting never,
While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing
The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever.
The Blue And Gray
© Eugene Field
The Blue and the Gray collided one day
In the future great town of Missouri,
And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear
That they tackled each other with fury.
Wet Weather Talk
© James Whitcomb Riley
It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice:
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
To Poesy
© Charles Harpur
Ah, misery! what were then my lot
Amongst a race of unbelievers
Sordid men who all declare
That earthly gain alone is fair,
And they who pore on bardic lore
Deceived deceivers.
The Nightingale Has A Lyre Of Gold
© William Ernest Henley
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
The Wind
© Amy Lowell
He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,
He steals the down from the honeybee,
Repining
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
She sat alway thro' the long day
Spinning the weary thread away;
And ever said in undertone:
'Come, that I be no more alone.'
Back-View
© William Ernest Henley
I watched you saunter down the sand:
Serene and large, the golden weather
I Explain A Few Things
© Pablo Neruda
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
Open, Time
© Louise Imogen Guiney
Open, Time, and let him pass
Shortly where his feet would be!
Like a leaf at Michaelmas
Swooning from the tree,
Among the Hills
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang
Good morrow to the cotter;
And once again Chocoruas horn
Of shadow pierced the water.
The Passionate Poet
© Frank Morton
I dearly long -- perhaps you've learned
The process, and will let me know it --
To stop a fierce and curdling wail
And muzzle a forsaken poet.
