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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Gordon's Grave, by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
All the heat and the glow and the hush
of the summer afternoon;
the scent of the sweet-briar bush
over bowing grass-blades and broom;
the birds that flit and pass;
Still Cold Outside..., by Ghan Dace
Living in the forest of pain,
No one could see my tears in the rain,
Night was the witness
Cold was the witness
and my broken wings, but you...
Leisure, by William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
To Mistress Margery Wentworth, by John Skelton
WITH margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
His Books, by Robert Southey
MY days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
Song, by Sir George Etherege
LADIES, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue,
Yet you yourselves are not above
A Faun in Wall Street, by John Myers O'Hara
What shape so furtive steals along the dim
Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June;
This day of rest, when all the roses swoon
In Attic vales where dryads wait for him?
What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim
William H. Herndon, by Edgar Lee Masters
Spoon River Anthology
There by the window in the old house
Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley,
My days of labor closed, sitting out life's decline,
Day by day did I look in my memory,
Spring Song, by William Griffith
Softly at dawn a whisper stole
Down from the Green House on the Hill,
Enchanting many a ghostly bole
And wood-song with the ancient thrill.
Gossiping on the country-side,
The Most-Sacred Mountain, by Eunice Tietjens
Space, and the twelve clean winds of heaven,
And this sharp exultation, like a cry, after the slow six thousand
steps of climbing!
This is Tai Shan, the beautiful, the most holy.
Below my feet the foot-hills nestle, brown with flecks of green;
At a Solemn Musick, by John Milton
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,
Too Many Things to Remember About You, by Jay LeBorgne
Too Many Things to Remember About You
You never said I was dumb
Always said I was kinda smart
So much to remember, my head feels numb
I'm not really sure where I should start
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