Women poems
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Tomes
© William Taylor Collins
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
Don Juan: Canto The Twelfth
© George Gordon Byron
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
Brightens Sister-In-Law [or The Carrier's Story]
© Henry Lawson
AT A POINT where the old road crosses
The river, and turns to the right,
A Story of the Sea-Shore
© George MacDonald
It was a simple tale, a monotone:
She climbed one sunny hill, gazed once abroad,
Then wandered down, to pace a dreary plain;
Alas! how many such are told by night,
In fisher-cottages along the shore!
The Sleep-Walkers
© Khalil Gibran
And the mother spoke, and she said: "At last, at last, my enemy!
You by whom my youth was destroyed--who have built up your life
upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!"
I Am With Terrorism
© Nizar Qabbani
We are accused of terrorism:
if we wrote about the ruins of a homeland
torn, weak...
a homeland with no address
and an nation with no names
Seasons Of The Soul
© Allen Tate
Attor porsi la mano un poco avante,
e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno;
e U tronco suo gridd: Perchd mi schiante?
The Task : Complete
© William Cowper
In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.
From Perugia
© John Greenleaf Whittier
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S Letters from Italy.
THE tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread,
Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red;
And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff,
The Wakened God
© Margaret Widdemer
The War-god wakened drowsily;
There were gold chains about his hands.
He said: "And who shall reap my lands
And bear the tithes to Death for me?
A Dialogue At Fiesole
© Alfred Austin
HE.
Halt here awhile. That mossy-cushioned seat
Is for your queenliness a natural throne;
As I am fitly couched on this low sward,
Here at your feet.
For What She Had Done
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
She had to die.
This Omoo knew.
He also knew he could not kill her.
Not even try to kill her.
To His Worthy Friend Doctor Witty Upon His Translation Of T
© Andrew Marvell
Sit further, and make room for thine own fame,
Where just desert enrolles thy honour'd Name
The good Interpreter. Some in this task
Take of the Cypress vail, but leave a mask,
L'envoi from Balladeadro
© George Gordon McCrae
See where the allied armies camped,
Where plumed and painted dancers tramped-
Amours De Voyage, Canto III
© Arthur Hugh Clough
- domus Albuneae resonantis,
Et praeceps Anio, et Tibuni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis
Insomniac
© Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
From 'The Cupboard' (Le buffet)
© Arthur Rimbaud
A large carved cupboard of white oak
emanates that relaxed gentle air
Old people have; open, it's kindly
shadows give off fragrances like fine
Azrael's Count
© Rudyard Kipling
Men I dismiss to the Mercy greet me not willingly;
Crying, "When seekest Thou me first? Are not my kin unslain?
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise.
