Poems begining by Y
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Years
© Sylvia Plath
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
'Yes'
© Charles Harpur
MY SOUL is raying like a star,
My heart is happier than a bird,
And all to hear through fortunes jar
One promissory word.
Your Hand
© Paul Celan
Your Hand full of Hours, you came to me and I said:
Your Hair is not brown.
So you lifted it, lightly, onto the Balance of Grief, it was
Heavier than I
Youth and June
© Jean Blewett
I was your lover long ago, sweet June,
Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still,
Youth Renewed
© Robert Fuller Murray
When one who has wandered out of the way
Which leads to the hills of joy,
Yeux Glauques
© Ezra Pound
Gladstone was still respected,
When John Ruskin produced
'King's Treasuries'; Swinburne
And Rossetti still abused.
Yet At the Last
© Rudyard Kipling
Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
You's Sweet to Yo' Mammy de Same
© James Weldon Johnson
You's sweet to yo' mammy jes de same;
Dat's why she calls you Honey fu' yo' name.
Yo' face is black, dat's true,
An' yo' hair is woolly, too,
But, you's sweet to yo' mammy jes de same.
Your Orange Hair In The Void Of The World
© Paul Eluard
Your orange hair in the void of the world
In the void of these heavy panes of silence
Shade where my bare hands seek your image.
You Take My Hand
© Margaret Atwood
You take my hand and
I'm suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and
why am I fascinated
You Begin
© Margaret Atwood
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
Yussouf
© James Russell Lowell
A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent,
Saying, 'Behold one outcast and in dread,
Against whose life the bow of power is bent,
Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;
I come to thee for shelter and for food,
To Yussouf, called through all our tribes "The Good."
You'll Love Me Yet
© Robert Browning
You'll love me yet!and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.
Yam by Bruce Guernsey : American Life in Poetry #238 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Though some teacher may have made you think that all poetry is deadly serious, chock full of coded meanings and obscure symbols, poems, like other works of art, can be delightfully playful. Here Bruce Guernsey, who divides his time between Illinois and Maine, plays with a common yam.
Yam
Youth's Agitations
© Matthew Arnold
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,
From this poor present self which I am now;
When youth has done its tedious vain expense
Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;
