Poems begining by Y

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19

Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours.

© Walt Whitman

1
YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also;
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles!
Earth to a chamber of mourning turnsI hear the oerweening, mocking voice,

Young Man's Song

© William Butler Yeats

'She will change,' I cried.
'Into a withered crone.'
The heart in my side,
That so still had lain,
In noble rage replied
And beat upon the bone:

Youth And Age

© William Butler Yeats

Much did I rage when young,
Being by the world oppressed,
But now with flattering tongue
It speeds the parting guest.

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

Ye Carpette Knyghte

© Lewis Carroll

I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys - a horse of clothes.

You Are Old, Father William

© Lewis Carroll

"You are old, Father william," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?

Yarrow Visited. September, 1814

© André Breton

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream

Of which my fancy cherished,

Yarrow Revisited

© André Breton

The gallant Youth, who may have gained,

Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow,"

You Also, Nightingale

© Reginald Shepherd

Petrarch dreams of pebbles
on the tongue, he loves me
at a distance, black polished stone
skipping the lake that swallows

Yellow Glove

© Naomi Shihab Nye

What can a yellow glove mean in a world of motorcars and governments?
I was small, like everyone. Life was a string of precautions: Don’t kiss the squirrel before you bury him, don’t suck candy, pop balloons, drop watermelons, watch TV. When the new gloves appeared one Christmas, tucked in soft tissue, I heard it trailing me: Don’t lose the yellow gloves.
I was small, there was too much to remember. One day, waving at a stream—the ice had cracked, winter chipping down, soon we would sail boats and roll into ditches—I let a glove go. Into the stream, sucked under the street. Since when did streets have mouths? I walked home on a desperate road. Gloves cost money. We didn’t have much. I would tell no one. I would wear the yellow glove that was left and keep the other hand in a pocket. I knew my mother’s eyes had tears they had not cried yet, I didn’t want to be the one to make them flow. It was the prayer I spoke secretly, folding socks, lining up donkeys in windowsills. To be good, a promise made to the roaches who scouted my closet at night. If you don’t get in my bed, I will be good. And they listened. I had a lot to fulfill.
The months rolled down like towels out of a machine. I sang and drew and fattened the cat. Don’t scream, don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t fight—you could hear it anywhere. A pebble could show you how to be smooth, tell the truth. A field could show how to sleep without walls. A stream could remember how to drift and change—next June I was stirring the stream like a soup, telling my brother dinner would be ready if he’d only hurry up with the bread, when I saw it. The yellow glove draped on a twig. A muddy survivor. A quiet flag.

Yellowjackets

© Yusef Komunyakaa

When the plowblade struck

An old stump hiding under

You’re

© Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,

Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,

“Yet to die. Unalone still.”

© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam

Yet to die. Unalone still.
For now your pauper-friend is with you.
Together you delight in the grandeur of the plains,
And the dark, the cold, the storms of snow.

You and I Saw Hawks Exchanging the Prey

© James Wright

Smaller than she, he goes
Claw beneath claw beneath
Needles and leaning boughs,

Young Afrikans

Blacktime is time for chimeful
poemhood
but they decree a
jagged chiming now.

Yarrow Unvisited

© André Breton

From Stirling castle we had seen

Young Woman

Naked before the glass she said,
“I see my body as no man has,
Nor any shall unless I wed
And naked in a stranger’s house
Stand timid beside his bed.
There is no pity in the flesh.”