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category_1_x_poem.id | category_1.id | category_1.ts | category_1.title | poem.id | poem.ts | poem.title | poem.content | poem.author |
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6982 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6982 | 2018-02-27 13:28:18 | Not Lonely...Not Alone - Inspired By Alo.. poem | To be with people Not feel lonely To be with oneself Not feel alone | Richard Wlodarski |
6983 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6983 | 2018-02-27 13:28:22 | I Didn'T Stand Alone poem | I was born a wild childa navigators sonfrom the slums I took my chancesand was always on the runfought my way with others like meand society who blamedmy behaviour on my parentsand misfortune on my nameI bled for my existenceand stole to feed my needI would put on many facesto extrapolate my breedto defend the others round meand provide some hopeful careto the familys with broken hearts and dreams that went nowhereIn the darkness of a thousand scarsthat tore away my fleshmy hands would reach into the soul and bones of what I'm worthand though the sun was shiningtrying to brighten up the dayin the poverty of mouths to feedthe slums are always greyIn a history of violenceand the screams that no-one heardin a mothers tears and fathers fearsI learned every wordand paraded with a vengeanceon the streets of cobblestonesthat my heart was independant and I didn't stand alone. |
Charles M Moore |
6984 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6984 | 2018-02-27 13:28:26 | Home, Quite Alone... poem | My family drove off mere hours ago to visit Grandma on her birthday, thus I am home and quite all alone.First thing I undertook post-farewellwas doff my duds down to the undies, hotter, t'was, than Homer Simpson's hell. Ne'er may I dance to song as I please - -tho' the spirit may often move me, for my kin fling up arms, shriek and tease.My feet like to dance, so, dance I did, with the family van well out of view.Sometimes you must blindly trust your id! I danced like a fiend, singing along, as graceful as Elaine on 'Seinfeld', free as a bird both in movement and song... Exhaustedat last, I realized - - a mite too latethat in my half- sorrowful/all-ecstaticstateI'd undressedwhile still in frontof the house...SOB (to say the least, eh?) I fell dumbly to my knees, clothes GONE from the grass! Finding the door securely locked, I spontaneously combusted into ash h h..........Not really...I'm hiding beneaththe deck until their return in days three using heretoforeunknown mental powers to post this poem on PH with glee! So what - -I'm hungry. |
Esther Leclerc |
6985 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6985 | 2018-02-27 13:28:28 | Alone In Your Arms poem | Common interests brought us together, Conversations on which we could agree.There has never been enough trust to discussIssues in which we'd disagree.Our hearts don't have the magic connectionThat allow our brains to share the same waves.Cupid has not struck us with his arrows, To each other's soul we are not slaves.We occupy the same space, living in orbit.Our eyes meet across silence the size of an ocean, And while our intentions are in the right place, Fear is the source of our eternal devotion. You don't know how much I need you.I don't know why I expect you to read my mind.It is amazingly easy to feel alone in your arms; The mystery is why romance is so hard to find. |
Sydney Daniels |
6986 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6986 | 2018-02-27 13:28:33 | He Stands Alone. poem | He stands alone now etched by timeAs though was meant to beHis frame all bent and twistedFor all who pass to seeIt wasn't always as it isWhen children came aroundTo run and laugh and shriek with gleeHe revelled in the soundBut age and weather took its tollAnd disease had hit him hardA surgeons cuts had saved his lifeFor which he didn't chargeAnd so he stands alone but proudTo survey what could be seenThe only oak for miles aroundUpon the village green. |
Graham Jones |
6987 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6987 | 2018-02-27 13:28:38 | Home Alone Utopia poem | I am feeling rather tired, so I'll lay in bed till noon.To stay in bed till lunch time, is really quite a boon.Everyone will be at work, and I'll be 'Home Alone'I can play my Hi Fi very loud, and the neighbours won't moan.I like to play loud music, and get into the 'Rhythm and Beat! It's nice that my friends can hear it, at the other end of the street.When I get fed up with the music, it's time to make tea.This is when I start to settle down, and put my feet on the 'Settee'I view the afternoon telly, and watch the afternoon soap, I can do this as a part -time job, It's not so hard to cope.This is when I fall asleep, until everyone comes home.Then my parents have a go, because I'm always on the phone.Mum gets very busy, when she cooks the evening tea.I too get very busy, and out the door I flee.The sound of washing up, makes me feel sick inside, so out the door I goto seek a place to hide.When I go to a Disco, I like to stay all night, sometimes I stroll home, when the sun is shining bright.I crawl into my bed, which is my only Salvation, and there I will stayuntil my Resurrection.This is how I live, I am my own Creator, but what I can't understand, is why I'm called, a selfish Couch Potato. |
sylvia spencer |
6988 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6988 | 2018-02-27 13:28:42 | Everyone Sits Alone poem | Life is the cageWe are all born intoThe zoo Drives down the longSnake in the rain, Everyone sits aloneIn the parkIn the carIn the theatreEveryone sits aloneAnd looks through barsOf their flesh and boneNo eager hand can grasp out of thisNo willing hand has the Reach, We touch our fleshTo the flesh of our cages, We lay down chainedAnd little birds singBeside others miles awayAnd barkingWe touch steering wheelsAs the lights cross our eyesWe learn to believeThe birth of shadowsWe drive, a line of slaves, Down the roadEveryone sits alone. |
Robert Rorabeck |
6989 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6989 | 2018-02-27 13:28:49 | Alone...Not Alone poem | Alone...at birth Alone...at deathNot alone...in the afterlife | Richard Wlodarski |
6990 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6990 | 2018-02-27 13:28:53 | Call Me, When You Are Alone.... poem | Call me, when you are aloneYou know your voice will make my dayYou know how much I wait to hear your voiceYou know how much I feel for youYou know you can shun my lonelinessYou know I listen to you through my tearsYou know my tears brings joy to meYou know my heart has grown bigYou know your heart is pressed with meYou know I have so many wishes in my heartYou know I am sitting here and thinking how to startYou know I want to send my hugs to youYou know I love you forever in so many wayscall me again and again when you are lone |
Ravi Sathasivam |
6991 | 1 | 2018-02-27 03:06:39 | alone | 6991 | 2018-02-27 13:28:57 | Alone Again poem | When I'm talking to you, I am never alone. You are there. Your voice, My sanity. Then, you are gone, Leaving me in a terrifying silent darkness.When you are gone, no matter who may be around me, I am alone again.- | James Grengs |
50 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 50 | 2018-02-27 03:35:58 | America poem | Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,Stealing my breath of life, I will confessI love this cultured hell that tests my youth!Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,Giving me strength erect against her hate.Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,I stand within her walls with not a shredOf terror, malice, not a word of jeer.Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,And see her might and granite wonders there,Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand,Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. |
Claude McKay |
51 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 51 | 2018-02-27 03:36:03 | On Being Brought From Africa To America poem | 'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,Taught my benighted soul to understandThat there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.Some view our sable race with scornful eye,"Their colour is a diabolic die."Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain,May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train. | Phillis Wheatley |
52 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 52 | 2018-02-27 03:36:08 | America The Beautiful poem | O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law! O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife, Who more than self their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness, And every gain divine! O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! |
Katharine Lee Bates |
53 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 53 | 2018-02-27 03:36:15 | I Hear America Singing poem | I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear; Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck; The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands; The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown; The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs. |
Walt Whitman |
54 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 54 | 2018-02-27 03:36:17 | A Farewell To America To Mrs. S. W. poem | I.ADIEU, New-England's smiling meads, Adieu, the flow'ry plain:I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring, And tempt the roaring main. II.In vain for me the flow'rets rise, And boast their gaudy pride,While here beneath the northern skies I mourn for health deny'd. III.Celestial maid of rosy hue, O let me feel thy reign! I languish till thy face I view, Thy vanish'd joys regain. IV.Susanna mourns, nor can I bear To see the crystal show'r,Or mark the tender falling tear At sad departure's hour; V.Not unregarding can I see Her soul with grief opprest:But let no sighs, no groans for me, Steal from her pensive breast. VI.In vain the feather'd warblers sing, In vain the garden blooms,And on the bosom of the spring Breathes out her sweet perfumes. VII.While for Britannia's distant shore We sweep the liquid plain,And with astonish'd eyes explore The wide-extended main. VIII.Lo! Health appears! celestial dame! Complacent and serene,With Hebe's mantle o'er her Frame, With soul-delighting mein. IX.To mark the vale where London lies With misty vapours crown'd,Which cloud Aurora's thousand dyes, And veil her charms around. X.Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow? So slow thy rising ray? Give us the famous town to view, Thou glorious king of day! XI.For thee, Britannia, I resign New-England's smiling fields; To view again her charms divine, What joy the prospect yields! XII.But thou! Temptation hence away, With all thy fatal train,Nor once seduce my soul away, By thine enchanting strain. XIII.Thrice happy they, whose heav'nly shield Secures their souls from harms,And fell Temptation on the field Of all its pow'r disarms! |
Phillis Wheatley |
55 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 55 | 2018-02-27 03:36:20 | America, A Prophecy poem | The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc, When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode: His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron: Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven: no other arms she need! Invulnerable though naked, save where clouds roll round her loins Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise, But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay'd his fierce embrace. 'Dark Virgin,' said the hairy youth, 'thy father stern, abhorr'd, Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an Eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a Lion Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a Whale, I lash The raging fathomless abyss; anon a Serpent folding Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds, For chain'd beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face-- In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight.' Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he seiz'd the panting, struggling womb; It joy'd: she put aside her clouds and smiled her first-born smile, As when a black cloud shews its lightnings to the silent deep. Soon as she saw the terrible boy, then burst the virgin cry: 'I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go: Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa, And thou art fall'n to give me life in regions of dark death.On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur'd by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep. I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love, In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the south-sea, drinking my soul away. O what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent. This is eternal death, and this the torment long foretold.' |
William Blake |
56 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 56 | 2018-02-27 03:36:24 | America For Me poem | 'Tis fine to see the Old World and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumblyh castles and the statues and kings But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. So it's home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home. I like the German fir-woods in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing foutains filled; But, oh, to take your had, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her sway! I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack! The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free-- We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars. |
Henry Van Dyke |
57 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 57 | 2018-02-27 03:36:26 | A Prophecy: To George Keats In America poem | 'Tis the witching hour of night,Orbed is the moon and bright,And the stars they glisten, glisten,Seeming with bright eyes to listen --For what listen they?For a song and for a charm,See they glisten in alarm,And the moon is waxing warmTo hear what I shall say.Moon! keep wide thy golden ears --Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! --Hearken, thou eternal sky!I sing an infant's lullaby,A pretty lullaby.Listen, listen, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,And hear my lullaby!Though the rushes that will makeIts cradle still are in the lake -- Though the linen that will beIts swathe, is on the cotton tree --Though the woollen that will keepIt warm, is on the silly sheep --Listen, starlight, listen, listen,Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,And hear my lullaby!Child, I see thee! Child, I've found theeMidst of the quiet all around thee!And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!But a Poet evermore!See, see, the lyre, the lyre,In a flame of fire,Upon the little cradle's topFlaring, flaring, flaring,Past the eyesight's bearing,Awake it from its sleep,And see if it can keepIts eyes upon the blaze --Amaze, amaze!It stares, it stares, it stares,It dares what no one dares!It lifts its little hand into the flameUnharm'd, and on the stringsPaddles a little tune, and sings,With dumb endeavour sweetly --Bard art thou completely!Little childO' th' western wild,Bard art thou completely!Sweetly with dumb endeavour,A Poet now or never,Little childO' th' western wild,A Poet now or never! |
John Keats |
58 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 58 | 2018-02-27 03:36:30 | America poem | IWhere the wings of a sunny Dome expandI saw a Banner in gladsome air-Starry, like Berenice's Hair-Afloat in broadened bravery there; With undulating long-drawn flow,As rolled Brazilian billows goVoluminously o'er the Line.The Land reposed in peace below; The children in their gleeWere folded to the exulting heartOf young Maternity.IILater, and it streamed in fightWhen tempest mingled with the fray,And over the spear-point of the shaftI saw the ambiguous lightning play.Valor with Valor strove, and died:Fierce was Despair, and cruel was Pride; And the lorn Mother speechless stood,Pale at the fury of her brood.IIIYet later, and the silk did windHer fair cold for; Little availed the shining shroud,Though ruddy in hue, to cheer or warmA watcher looked upon her low, and said-She sleeps, but sleeps, she is not dead.But in that sleep contortion showedThe terror of the vision there-A silent vision unavowed,Revealing earth's foundation bare,And Gorgon in her hidden place.It was a thing of fear to seeSo foul a dream upon so fair a face,And the dreamer lying in that starry shroud.IVBut from the trance she sudden broke-The trance, or death into promoted life; At her feet a shivered yoke,And in her aspect turned to heavenNo trace of passion or of strife-A clear calm look. It spake of pain,But such as purifies from stain-Sharp pangs that never come again-And triumph repressed by knowledge meet,Power delicate, and hope grown wise,And youth matured for age's seat-Law on her brow and empire in her eyes.So she, with graver air and lifted flag; While the shadow, chased by light,Fled along the far-brawn height,And left her on the crag. |
Herman Melville |
59 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 59 | 2018-02-27 03:36:37 | America, America! poem | I am a poet of the Hudson River and the heights above it, the lights, the stars, and the bridgesI am also by self-appointment the laureate of the Atlantic -of the peoples' hearts, crossing it to new America.I am burdened with the truck and chimera, hope, acquired in the sweating sick-excited passage in steerage, strange and estrangedHence I must descry and describe the kingdom of emotion.For I am a poet of the kindergarten (in the city) and the cemetery (in the city)And rapture and ragtime and also the secret city in the heart and mindThis is the song of the natural city self in the 20th century.It is true but only partly true that a city is a "tyranny of numbers"(This is the chant of the urban metropolitan and metaphysical selfAfter the first two World Wars of the 20th century)--- This is the city self, looking from window to lighted windowWhen the squares and checks of faintly yellow lightShine at night, upon a huge dim board and slab-like tombs,Hiding many lives. It is the city consciousnessWhich sees and says: more: more and more: always more. |
Delmore Schwartz |
60 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 60 | 2018-02-27 03:36:39 | America poem | I love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees,Thy rolling plains;Thy rivers' mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep,All thy domains; Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy Golden Gate that standsWide to the West;Thy flowery Southland fair, Thy sweet and crystal air, --O land beyond compare,Thee I love best! Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906. |
Henry Van Dyke |
61 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 61 | 2018-02-27 03:36:44 | One Song, America, Before I Go poem | ONE song, America, before I go, I'd sing, o'er all the rest, with trumpet sound, For thee--the Future. I'd sow a seed for thee of endless Nationality; I'd fashion thy Ensemble, including Body and Soul; I'd show, away ahead, thy real Union, and how it may be accomplish'd. (The paths to the House I seek to make, But leave to those to come, the House itself.) Belief I sing--and Preparation; As Life and Nature are not great with reference to the Present only, 10 But greater still from what is yet to come, Out of that formula for Thee I sing. |
Walt Whitman |
62 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 62 | 2018-02-27 03:36:49 | Long, Too Long America poem | Long, too long America, Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only, But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are, (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?) | Walt Whitman |
63 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 63 | 2018-02-27 03:36:52 | America poem | America, you ode for reality!Give back the people you took.Let the sun shine againon the four corners of the worldyou thought of first but do notown, or keep like a convenience.People are your own word, youinvented that locus and term.Here, you said and say, iswhere we are. Give backwhat we are, these people you made,us, and nowhere but you to be. | Robert Creeley |
64 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 64 | 2018-02-27 03:36:54 | The Greatest Thing In North America poem | This is the greatest thing in North America:Europe is the greatest thing in North America!High in the sky, dark in the heart, and always thereAmong the natural powers of sunlight and of air,Changing, second by second, shifting and changing the light,Bring fresh rain to the stone of the library steps.Under the famous names upon the pediment: Thales, Aristotle,Cicero, Augustine, Scotus, Galileo,Joseph, Odysseus, Hamlet, Columbus and Spinoza,Anna Karenina, Alyosha Karamazov, Sherlock Holmes.And the last three also live upon the silver screenThree blocks away, in moonlight's artificial day,A double bill in the darkened palace whirled,And the veritable glittering light of the turning world'sBurning mind and blazing imagination, showing, day by dayAnd week after week the desires of the heart and mindOf all the living souls yearning everywhereFrom Canada to Panama, from Brooklyn to Paraguay,From Cuba to Vancouver, every afternoon and every night. |
Delmore Schwartz |
65 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 65 | 2018-02-27 03:36:56 | A Message To America poem | You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours. You are proud in the pride that feels its might; From your imaginary height Men of another race or hue Are men of a lesser breed to you: The neighbor at your southern gate You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. To lend a spice to your disrespect You call him the "greaser". But reflect! The greaser has spat on you more than once; He has handed you multiple affronts; He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; And you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- What did you do, what did you care? Did you find the season too cold and damp To change the counter for the camp? Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico? I can't imagine, but this I know -- You are impassioned vastly more By the news of the daily baseball score Than to hear that a dozen countrymen Have perished somewhere in Darien, That greasers have taken their innocent lives And robbed their holdings and raped their wives. Not by rough tongues and ready fists Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. The armies of a littler folk Shall pass you under the victor's yoke, Sobeit a nation that trains her sons To ride their horses and point their guns -- Sobeit a people that comprehends The limit where private pleasure ends And where their public dues begin, A people made strong by discipline Who are willing to give -- what you've no mind to -- And understand -- what you are blind to -- The things that the individual Must sacrifice for the good of all. You have a leader who knows -- the man Most fit to be called American, A prophet that once in generations Is given to point to erring nations Brighter ideals toward which to press And lead them out of the wilderness. Will you turn your back on him once again? Will you give the tiller once more to men Who have made your country the laughing-stock For the older peoples to scorn and mock, Who would make you servile, despised, and weak, A country that turns the other cheek, Who care not how bravely your flag may float, Who answer an insult with a note, Whose way is the easy way in all, And, seeing that polished arms appal Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, Would tell you menace does not exist? Are these, in the world's great parliament, The men you would choose to represent Your honor, your manhood, and your pride, And the virtues your fathers dignified? Oh, bury them deeper than the sea In universal obloquy; Forget the ground where they lie, or write For epitaph: "Too proud to fight." I have been too long from my country's shores To reckon what state of mind is yours, But as for myself I know right well I would go through fire and shot and shell And face new perils and make my bed In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led; But I have given my heart and hand To serve, in serving another land, Ideals kept bright that with you are dim; Here men can thrill to their country's hymn, For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise Is the same that fires the French these days, And, when the flag that they love goes by, With swelling bosom and moistened eye They can look, for they know that it floats there still By the might of their hands and the strength of their will, And through perils countless and trials unknown Its honor each man has made his own. They wanted the war no more than you, But they saw how the certain menace grew, And they gave two years of their youth or three The more to insure their liberty When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. They wanted the war no more than you, But when the dreadful summons blew And the time to settle the quarrel came They sprang to their guns, each man was game; And mark if they fight not to the last For their hearths, their altars, and their past: Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry For love of the country that WILL not die. O friends, in your fortunate present ease (Yet faced by the self-same facts as these), If you would see how a race can soar That has no love, but no fear, of war, How each can turn from his private role That all may act as a perfect whole, How men can live up to the place they claim And a nation, jealous of its good name, Be true to its proud inheritance, Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE! |
Alan Seeger |
66 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 66 | 2018-02-27 03:37:00 | America poem | OH mother of a mighty race,Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!The elder dames, thy haughty peers,Admire and hate thy blooming years.With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name.For on thy cheeks the glow is spreadThat tints thy morning hills with red;Thy step—the wild deer’s rustling feetWithin thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eyeIs bright as thine own sunny sky.Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones,While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heartWould rise to throwIts life between thee and the foe.They know not, in their hate and pride,What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maidsMake bright, like flowers, the valley shades;What generous menSpring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the West;How faith is kept, and truth revered,And man is loved, and God is feared,In woodland homes,And where the ocean border foams. There ’s freedom at thy gates and restFor Earth’s down-trodden and opprest,A shelter for the hunted head,For the starved laborer toil and bread.Power, at thy bounds, Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.Oh, fair young mother! on thy browShall sit a nobler grace than now.Deep in the brightness of the skiesThe thronging years in glory rise, And, as they fleet,Drop strength and riches at thy feet.Thine eye, with every coming hour,Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower;And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn,Before thine eye,Upon their lips the taunt shall die. |
William Cullen Bryant |
67 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 67 | 2018-02-27 03:37:04 | America poem | Once in English they said America. Was it English to them.Once they said Belgian.We like a fog.Do you for weather.Are we brave.Are we true.Have we the national colour.Can we stand ditches.Can we mean well.Do we talk together.Have we red cross.A great many people speak of feet.And socks. | Gertrude Stein |
68 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 68 | 2018-02-27 03:37:07 | ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' .. poem | First one footthen gingerly the othersteps from the swivelchair to the table topwhere blindly you fiddle with the slatscaught - now - un-caught -still sleepyI turn to see younaked againstskyscrapers& mewing like a kittystuck up a tree.'Help ne... help medown! 'as the swivel chairspins around andaway.You look so goodI looktwicebefore takingyour nakednessin handlowering yougently to the ground& then ever moregently to the bed.You purrOutsideNew Yorkcontinues to beNew York.Times Square...Time Squares.The soundof kissesovercomingthe traffic'sroar.*******The Sheraton New York & Towers Hotel...midnight...Christmas Eve's eve.2009 |
Dónall Dempsey |
69 | 2 | 2018-02-27 03:06:49 | america | 69 | 2018-02-27 03:37:14 | America poem | America the beautiful, America the great, America suits us all, America I cannot hateAmerica we've come so far, America the free, If we wish upon a star, Then that wish shall be | Olivia Taylor |
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