Work poems

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First Poem From The "Zdagger Upper Story"

© Daniil Ivanovich Kharms

Pyotr Pavlovich (entering the room):

Zdagger Upper Ooster Ooster

My Studio

© Christopher Pearse Cranch

I LOVE it, yet I hardly can tell why
My studio with its window to the sky,
Far up above the noises of the street,
The rumbling carts, the ceaseless tramp of feet;

Hymn IV. Dear Jesu, when, when will it be,

© John Austin

Dear Jesu, when, when will it be,

That I no more shall break with Thee!

The Good That I Would I Do Not

© John Newton

I would, but cannot sing,
Guilt has untuned my voice;
The serpent sin's envenomed sting
Has poisoned all my joys.

The Death Of Goody Nurse

© Rose Terry Cooke

The chill New England sunshine
Lay on the kitchen floor;
The wild New England north wind
Came rattling at the door.

Elegy II. On Posthumous Reputation - To a Friend

© William Shenstone

O grief of griefs! that Envy's frantic ire
Should rob the living virtue of its praise;
O foolish Muses! that with zeal aspire
To deck the cold insensate shrine with bays.

All Hail To The Czar!

© Alfred Austin

All hail to the Czar! By the fringe of the foam

That thunders, untamed, around Albion's shore,

A Ballade of Suicide

© Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To George Hayter, Esq.

© John Kenyon

ON HIS PICTURE OF THE TRIAL OF LORD WILLIAM RUSSELL.

To My Old Schoolmaster

© John Greenleaf Whittier

AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE

Old friend, kind friend! lightly down

Spring

© Samuel Johnson

Stern Winter now, by Spring repress'd
Forbears the long-continued strife;
And Nature, on her naked breast,
Delights to catch the gales of life.

The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall

© John Greenleaf Whittier

Up and down the village streets

Strange are the forms my fancy meets,

From Mr. Hosea Biglow To The Hon. J.T. Buckingham, Editor Of The Boston Courier, Covering A Letter From Mr. B. Sawin, Private In The Massachusetts Regiment

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',

R-e-m-o-r-s-e

© George Ade

The cocktail is a pleasant drink;

It's mild and harmless I don't think!

Fand, A Feerie Act I

Eithne's Spinning Song
Things of the Earth and things of the Air,
Strengths that we feel though we cannot share,
Shapes that are round us and everywhere.

At the Edge of Town by Don Welch: American Life in Poetry #56 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20

© Ted Kooser

When I complained about some of the tedious jobs I had as a boy, my mother would tell me, Ted, all work is honorable. In this poem, Don Welch gives us a man who's been fixing barbed wire fences all his life. At the Edge of Town

Hard to know which is more gnarled,
the posts he hammers staples into
or the blue hummocks which run
across his hands like molehills.

The Morning Visit

The morning visit,--not till sickness falls
In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack
Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;
Not till you play the patient in your turn,
The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.