Poems begining by X
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XIII. The First Feminist
© Marquis Donald Robert Perry
When first I chased and beat you to your kneesAnd wried your arm and marked your temple boneAnd wooed you, Sweet, and won you for my own,Those were not hairless-chested times like these!Wing'd saurians slithered down the charnel seasAnd giant insects glistened, basked, and shone,And snag-toothed ape-men fought with knives of stone --And wise she-spouses mostly aimed to please!But were not you the Primal FeministTen hundred thousand years ago, my Love,When we were first incarnate? I will sayWomen Expressed themselves e'en then, Sweet Dove!I do recall as if 'twere yesterdayThat time your teeth met through my dexter wrist
XII Mon. February [1746] hath xxviii days.
© Benjamin Franklin
Man's rich with little, were his Judgment true,Nature is frugal, and her Wants are few;Those few Wants answer'd, bring sincere Delights,But Fools create themselves new Appetites
XI Mon. January [1736] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion,Instead of Truth they use Equivocation,And eke it out with mental Reservation,Which to good Men is an Abomination
X Mon. December [1744] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
This World's an Inn, all Travellers are we;And this World's Goods th'Accommodations be
XXIV
© Boker George Henry
The leaden eyelids of wan twilight closeUpon the sun; and now the misty dewTrails its wet skirts across the glades, and throughThe tangled grasses of the meadow goes,Shaking a drop in every open rose,In every lily's cup; Yon dreary yewAlone looks darker for the tears that strewIts dusky leaves, and deeper shadow throws,And closer gathers; as if it would sitAs one who, mourning, wraps his mantle tight,And huddles nearer to the dismal sightOf some lost love; so yonder tree seems knitFast to the grave beneath; my heart takes flight,To that lone yew, and cowers under it
XLVII
© Boker George Henry
Standing upon this grave, I view The world with my anointed eyes.They pass along, a motley crew, The people, with their works and cries.
XLII
© Boker George Henry
If she should give me all I ask of her,The virgin treasures of her modest love;If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,And limb with limb should palpitate and stirIn that wild struggle whose delights conferA rapture which the jealous gods aboveEnvy and long for as they coldly moveThrough votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,Forever waiting at my beck and call,I lord and master of her all in all;Yet at that weakness I would fret and pineWhich makes exhausted nature trip and fallJust at the point where it becomes divine
Xanthias Jollied
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed
That she you love is but a servant.
Remember, lovers far more famed
Were just as fervent.
Xantippe(A Fragment)
© Amy Levy
What, have I waked again? I never thought
To see the rosy dawn, or ev'n this grey,
XXIII - De la rue on entend...
© François Coppée
De la rue on entend sa plaintive chanson.
Pâle et rousse, le teint plein de taches de son,
Elle coud, de profil, assise à sa fenêtre.
Très sage et sachant bien qu'elle est laide peut-être,
XXX - C'est vrai, j'aime Paris
© François Coppée
C'est vrai, j'aime Paris d'une amitié malsaine;
J'ai partout le regret des vieux bords de la Seine
Devant la vaste mer, devant les pics neigeux,
Je rêve d'un faubourg plein d'enfants et de jeux.
Xvi
© Emily Dickinson
To fight aloud, is very brave
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Cavalry of Woe
X: And Must I Sing?
© Benjamin Jonson
And must I sing? what subject shall I chuse?
Or whose great name in Poets heaven use?
For the more countenance to my active Muse?
XLVI From 'La Pell De Brau'
© Salvador Espriu
Sometimes it is necessary and right
for a man to die for a people.
XV: To Heaven
© Benjamin Jonson
Good, and great God, can I not think of thee,
But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea)
© Pablo Neruda
You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.
XVII (Thinking, Tangling Shadows...)
© Pablo Neruda
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.
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