Women poems
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At The Gate Of The Convent
© Alfred Austin
Beside the Convent Gate I stood,
Lingering to take farewell of those
To whom I owed the simple good
Of three days' peace, three nights' repose.
Lady Geraldine's Hardship
© Rudyard Kipling
I turned - Heaven knows we women turn too much
To broken reeds, mistaken so for pine
The Wisdom Of Merlyn
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
These are the time--words of Merlyn, the voice of his age recorded,
All his wisdom of life, the fruit of tears in his youth, of joy in his manhood hoarded,
All the wit of his years unsealed, to the witless alms awarded.
The King Of Denmark's Sons
© William Morris
In Denmark gone is many a year,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
Two sons of Gorm the King there were,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
Alas! Where Have All The Years Gone
© Walther von der Vogelweide
Alas! Where have all the years gone?
Did I dream my life, or is it real?
Mourning Women
© Mathilde Blind
Most wretched women! whom your prophet dooms
To take love's penalties without its prize!
Yes; you shall bear the unborn in your wombs,
And water dusty death with streaming eyes,
And, wailing, beat your breasts among the tombs;
But souls ye have none fit for Paradise.
It will be Summereventually
© Emily Dickinson
It will be Summereventually.
Ladieswith parasols
Sauntering Gentlemenwith Canes
And little Girlswith Dolls
In A Southern Garden
© Dorothea Mackellar
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
The Song Of Hiawatha XII: The Son Of The Evening Star
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Can it be the sun descending
O'er the level plain of water?
Men and Women
© James Kenneth Stephen
. IN THE BACKS.
As I was strolling lonely in the Backs,
I met a woman whom I did not like.
I did not like the way the woman walked:
Cordelia
© William Michael Rossetti
They turn on her and fix their eyes,
But cease not passing inward;--one
Sneering with lips still curled to lies,
Sinuous of body, serpent-wise;
Her footfall creeps, and her looks shun
The very thing on which they dwell.
And the Seventh Dream is the Dream of Isis
© David Gascoyne
she was standing at the window clothed only in a ribbon
she was burning the eyes of snails in a candle
she was eating the excrement of dogs and horses
she was writing a letter to the president of france
Seven Laments For The War-Dead
© Yehuda Amichai
1
Mr. Beringer, whose son
fell at the Canal that strangers dug
so ships could cross the desert,
crosses my path at Jaffa Gate.
Airlin's Fine Braes
© Robert Burns
O I've walked o'er yon countries baith early and late
Among Airlin's braw lasses I've had mony a lang seat.
Comin' hame in the mornins, fin I should have been at ease
Fin I wis a plooboy on Airlin's fine braes.
