Women poems

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This Door You Might Not Open

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

This door you might not open, and you did;

  So enter now, and see for what slight thing

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Mostly Slavonic

© Henry Lawson

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

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Sancho Sanchez

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Sancho Sanchez lay a--dying in the house of Mariquita,
For his life ebbed with the ebbing of the red wound in his side.
And he lay there as they left him when he came from the Corrida
In his gold embroidered jacket and his red cloak and his pride.

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Toplesstown

© Sheldon Allan Silverstein

Talk about a hit! They're packed in and linin' up
A cover and a minimum--coffee $2 a cup
Lucy's pullin' down a thousand a week with tips and all
Workin' double shifts while startin' to bitch how
Her arches are beginning to fall.

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The Writer's Dream

© Henry Lawson

And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.

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Srahmandazi

© Sir Henry Newbolt

Deep embowered beside the forest river,
  Where the flame of sunset only falls,
Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying,
  House of them to whom the twilight calls.

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A Fable For Critics

© James Russell Lowell

  'Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack
On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack,
Who thinks every national author a poor one,
That isn't a copy of something that's foreign, 
And assaults the American Dick--'

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The Folk-Mote By The River

© William Morris

And now we saw the banners borne
On the first of the way that we had shorn;
So we laid the scythe upon the sward
And girt us to the battle-sword.

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Human Family

© Maya Angelou

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.

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Mother Of Five

© Edgar Albert Guest

She mothered five!

Night after night she watched a little  bed,

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An Invocation to Poesy

© Charles Mackay

Stay with me, Poesy! playmate of childhood!
Friend of my manhood! delight of my youth!
Roamer with me over valley and wildwood,
Searching for loveliness, groping for Truth.

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With Dickens

© Henry Lawson

In Windsor Terrace, number four,

  I’ve taken my abode—

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The Angels of Buena Vista

© John Greenleaf Whittier

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

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The Call

© William Henry Ogilvie

Gold and green the elm leaves lean and interlace,

All the coloured woodlands are calling to the Chase.

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Don Juan: Canto The Ninth

© George Gordon Byron

Oh, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame

Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;

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The Horkey

© Robert Bloomfield

What gossips prattled in the sun,
  Who talk'd him fairly down,
Up, memory! tell; 'tis Suffolk fun,
  And lingo of their own.

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Griselda: A Society Novel In Verse - Chapter I

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

And thus I first beheld her, standing calm
In the swayed crowd upon her husband's arm,
One opera night, the centre of all eyes,
So proud she seemed, so fair, so sweet, so wise.
Some one behind me whispered ``Lady L.!
His Lordship too! and thereby hangs a tale.''

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Penumbra

© Pierre Louys

Under the sheet of transparent wool we
slipped, she and I. Even our heads were sunk
under, and the lamp illumined the stuff over
us. Thus I behld her dear body in a mysterious

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Overtures

© John Crowe Ransom

My dear and I, we disagreed
  When we had been much time together.
  For when will lovers learn to sail
  From sailing always in good weather?

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The Angel In The House. Book II. Canto VIII.

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore


III The Kiss
  ‘I saw you take his kiss!’ ‘'Tis true.’
  ‘O, modesty!’ ‘'Twas strictly kept:
  ‘He thought me asleep; at least, I knew
  ‘He thought I thought he thought I slept.’