category_1_x_poem.id,category_1.id,category_1.ts,category_1.title,poem.id,poem.ts,poem.title,poem.author,poem.content
76,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",76,"2018-02-27 21:07:34","A Little History","David Lehman","Some people find out they are Jews.They can't believe it.Thy had always hated Jews.As children they had roamed in gangs on winter nights in the old neighborhood, looking for Jews.They were not Jewish, they were Irish.They brandished broken bottles, tough guys with blood on their lips, looking for Jews.They intercepted Jewish boys walking alone and beat them up.Sometimes they were content to chase a Jew and he could elude them by running away. They were happy just to see him run away. The coward! All Jews were yellow.They spelled Jew with a small j jew.And now they find out they are Jews themselves.It happened at the time of the Spanish Inquisition.To escape persecution, they pretended to convert to Christianity.They came to this country and settled in the Southwest.At some point oral tradition failed the family, and their secret faith died.No one would ever have known if not for the bones that turned up on the dig.A disaster. How could it have happened to them?They are in a state of panic--at first.Then they realize that it is the answer to their prayers.They hasten to the synagogue or build new ones.They are Jews at last!They are free to marry other Jews, and divorce them, and intermarry with Gentiles, God forbid.They are model citizens, clever and thrifty.They debate the issues.They fire off earnest letters to the editor.They vote.They are resented for being clever and thrifty.They buy houses in the suburbs and agree not to talk so loud.They look like everyone else, drive the same cars as everyone else, yet in their hearts they know they're different.In every minyan there are always two or three, hated by the others, who give life to one ugly stereotype or another:The grasping Jew with the hooked nose or the Ivy League Bolshevik who thinks he is the agent of world history.But most of them are neither ostentatiously pious nor excessively avaricious.How I envy them! They believe.How I envy them their annual family reunion on Passover, anniversary of the Exodus, when all the uncles and aunts and cousins get together.They wonder about the heritage of Judaism they are passing along to their children.Have they done as much as they could to keep the old embers burning?Others lead more dramatic lives.A few go to Israel.One of them calls Israel ""the ultimate concentration camp.""He tells Jewish jokes.On the plane he gets tipsy, tries to seduce the stewardess.People in the Midwest keep telling him reminds them of Woody Allen.He wonders what that means. I'm funny? A sort of nervous intellectual type from New York? A Jew?Around this time somebody accuses him of not being Jewish enough.It is said by resentful colleagues that his parents changed their name from something that sounded more Jewish.Everything he publishes is scrutinized with reference to ""the Jewish question.""It is no longer clear what is meant by that phrase.He has already forgotten all the Yiddish he used to know, and the people of that era are dying out one after another.The number of witnesses keeps diminishing.Soon there will be no one left to remind the others and their children.That is why he came to this dry place where the bones have come to life.To live in a state of perpetual war puts a tremendous burden on the population. As a visitor he felt he had to share that burden.With his gift for codes and ciphers, he joined the counter- terrorism unit of army intelligence.Contrary to what the spook novels say, he found it possible to avoid betraying either his country or his lover.This was the life: strange bedrooms, the perfume of other men's wives.As a spy he has a unique mission: to get his name on the front page of the nation's newspaper of record. Only by doing that would he get the message through to his immediate superior.If he goes to jail, he will do so proudly; if they're going to hang him anyway, he'll do something worth hanging for.In time he may get used to being the center of attention, but this was incredible:To talk his way into being the chief suspect in the most flamboyant murder case in years!And he was innocent!He could prove it!And what a book he would write when they free him from this prison:A novel, obliquely autobiographical, set in Vienna in the twilight of the Hapsburg Empire, in the year that his mother was born."
77,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",77,"2018-02-27 21:07:38","The Woman and the Wife","Edwin Arlington Robinson","I--THE EXPLANATION""You thought we knew,"" she said, ""but we were wrong. This we can say, the rest we do not say; Nor do I let you throw yourself away Because you love me. Let us both be strong, And we shall find in sorrow, before long, Only the price Love ruled that we should pay: The dark is the end of every day, And silence is the end of every song.""You ask me for one more proof that I speak right, But I can answer only what I know; You look for just one lie to make black white, But I can tell you only what is true-- God never made me for the wife of you. This we can say,--believe me! . . . Tell me so!""II--THE ANNIVERSARY""Give me the truth, whatever it may be. You thought we knew, but now tell me what you miss: You are the one to tell me what it is-- You are a man, and you have married me. What is it worth to-night that you can see More marriage in the dream of one dead kiss Than in a thousand years of life like this? Passion has turned the lock. Pride keeps the key.""Whatever I have said or left unsaid, Whatever I have done or left undone,-- Tell me. Tell me the truth . . . Are you afraid? Do you think that Love was ever fed with lies But hunger lived thereafter in his eyes? Do you ask me to take moonlight for the sun?"""
78,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",78,"2018-02-27 21:07:39","Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.""O Cжsar, we who are about to die Salute you!"" was the gladiators' cry In the arena, standing face to face With death and with the Roman populace. O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine, That once were mine and are no longer mine,-- Thou river, widening through the meadows green To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,-- Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose And vanished,--we who are about to die, Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, And the Imperial Sun that scatters down His sovereign splendors upon grove and town. Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! We are forgotten; and in your austere And calm indifference, ye little care Whether we come or go, or whence or where. What passing generations fill these halls, What passing voices echo from these walls, Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, A moment heard, and then forever past. Not so the teachers who in earlier days Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; They answer us--alas! what have I said? What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? What salutation, welcome, or reply? What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie? They are no longer here; they all are gone Into the land of shadows,--all save one. Honor and reverence, and the good repute That follows faithful service as its fruit, Be unto him, whom living we salute. The great Italian poet, when he made His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, Met there the old instructor of his youth, And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: ""Oh, never from the memory of my heart Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, Taught me how mortals are immortalized; How grateful am I for that patient care All my life long my language shall declare."" To-day we make the poet's words our own, And utter them in plaintive undertone; Nor to the living only be they said, But to the other living called the dead, Whose dear, paternal images appear Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here; Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, Were part and parcel of great Nature's law; Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, ""Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,"" But labored in their sphere, as men who live In the delight that work alone can give. Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, And the fulfilment of the great behest: ""Ye have been faithful over a few things, Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings."" And ye who fill the places we once filled, And follow in the furrows that we tilled, Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, We who are old, and are about to die, Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, And crown you with our welcome as with flowers! How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend! Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, That holds the treasures of the universe! All possibilities are in its hands, No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; In its sublime audacity of faith, ""Be thou removed!"" it to the mountain saith, And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud! As ancient Priam at the Scжan gate Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state With the old men, too old and weak to fight, Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, Of Trojans and Achaians in the field; So from the snowy summits of our years We see you in the plain, as each appears, And question of you; asking, ""Who is he That towers above the others? Which may be Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?"" Let him not boast who puts his armor on As he who puts it off, the battle done. Study yourselves; and most of all note well Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. Not every blossom ripens into fruit; Minerva, the inventress of the flute, Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed Distorted in a fountain as she played; The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate Was one to make the bravest hesitate. Write on your doors the saying wise and old, ""Be bold! be bold!"" and everywhere, ""Be bold; Be not too bold!"" Yet better the excess Than the defect; better the more than less; Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly. And now, my classmates; ye remaining few That number not the half of those we knew, Ye, against whose familiar names not yet The fatal asterisk of death is set, Ye I salute! The horologe of Time Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, And summons us together once again, The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain. Where are the others? Voices from the deep Caverns of darkness answer me: ""They sleep!"" I name no names; instinctively I feel Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss, For every heart best knoweth its own loss. I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white Through the pale dusk of the impending night; O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws Its golden lilies mingled with the rose; We give to each a tender thought, and pass Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, Unto these scenes frequented by our feet When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet. What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is? When I survey This throng of faces turned to meet my own, Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, Transformed the very landscape seems to be; It is the same, yet not the same to me. So many memories crowd upon my brain, So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread, As from a house where some one lieth dead. I cannot go;--I pause;--I hesitate; My feet reluctant linger at the gate; As one who struggles in a troubled dream To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears! Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years! Whatever time or space may intervene, I will not be a stranger in this scene. Here every doubt, all indecision, ends; Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends! Ah me! the fifty years since last we met Seem to me fifty folios bound and set By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. What tragedies, what comedies, are there; What joy and grief, what rapture and despair! What chronicles of triumph and defeat, Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears! What pages blotted, blistered by our tears! What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, What sweet, angelic faces, what divine And holy images of love and trust, Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust!Whose hand shall dare to open and explore These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore? Not mine. With reverential feet I pass; I hear a voice that cries, ""Alas! alas! Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be."" As children frightened by a thunder-cloud Are reassured if some one reads aloud A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, Let me endeavor with a tale to chase The gathering shadows of the time and place, And banish what we all too deeply feel Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. In mediжval Rome, I know not where, There stood an image with its arm in air, And on its lifted finger, shining clear, A golden ring with the device, ""Strike here!"" Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed The meaning that these words but half expressed, Until a learned clerk, who at noonday With downcast eyes was passing on his way, Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well, Whereon the shadow of the finger fell; And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found A secret stairway leading underground. Down this he passed into a spacious hall, Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall; And opposite, in threatening attitude, With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. Upon its forehead, like a coronet, Were these mysterious words of menace set: ""That which I am, I am; my fatal aim None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!"" Midway the hall was a fair table placed, With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, And gold the bread and viands manifold. Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; And the vast hall was filled in every part With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; Then from the table, by his greed made bold, He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, The archer sped his arrow, at their call, Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, And all was dark around and overhead;-- Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead! The writer of this legend then records Its ghostly application in these words: The image is the Adversary old, Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold; Our lusts and passions are the downward stair That leads the soul from a diviner air; The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life; Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone By avarice have been hardened into stone; The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. The scholar and the world! The endless strife, The discord in the harmonies of life! The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books; The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain! But why, you ask me, should this tale be told To men grown old, or who are growing old? It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, When each had numbered more than fourscore years, And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, Had but begun his ""Characters of Men."" Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales; Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, Completed Faust when eighty years were past. These are indeed exceptions; but they show How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives. As the barometer foretells the storm While still the skies are clear, the weather warm So something in us, as old age draws near, Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, Descends the elastic ladder of the air; The telltale blood in artery and vein Sinks from its higher levels in the brain; Whatever poet, orator, or sage May say of it, old age is still old age. It is the waning, not the crescent moon; The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon; It is not strength, but weakness; not desire, But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, The burning and consuming element, But that of ashes and of embers spent, In which some living sparks we still discern, Enough to warm, but not enough to burn. What then? Shall we sit idly down and say The night hath come; it is no longer day? The night hath not yet come; we are not quite Cut off from labor by the failing light; Something remains for us to do or dare; Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, But other something, would we but begin; For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day."
79,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",79,"2018-02-27 21:07:43","Never To Dream Of Spiders","Audre Lorde","Time collapses between the lips of strangersmy days collapse into a hollow tube soon implodes against nowlike an iron wallmy eyes are blocked with rubble a smear of perspectivesblurring each horizon in the breathless precision of silenceOne word is made.Once the renegade flesh was gonefall air lay against my face sharp and blue as a needlebut the rain fell through Octoberand death lay a condemnationwithin my blood.The smell of your neck in Augusta fine gold wire bejeweling warall the rest liesillusive as a farmhouseon the other side of a valleyvanishing in the afternoon.Day three day four day tenthe seventh stepa veiled door leading to my goldenanniversaryflameproofed free-paper shreddedin the teeth of a pillaging dognever to dream of spidersand when they turned the hoses upon mea burst of light."
80,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",80,"2018-02-27 21:07:45","For The Anniversary Of My Death","W. S. Merwin","Every year without knowing it I have passed the dayWhen the last fires will wave to meAnd the silence will set outTireless travellerLike the beam of a lightless starThen I will no longerFind myself in life as in a strange garmentSurprised at the earthAnd the love of one womanAnd the shamelessness of menAs today writing after three days of rainHearing the wren sing and the falling ceaseAnd bowing not knowing to what"
81,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",81,"2018-02-27 21:07:45","A Different Anniversary","Raymond A. Foss","A year ago we completed a journeyof faith, of hope, of loveA different anniversary than our firstOur first, a four month ago,was a first sharing of I do’s,our joining before God and friendsunder a snow filled skyin God’s creationToday is the first anniversaryof our covenant before Youin our house of faithjoining our hands and heartsnot in contract but inloving covenantHow I love you more todaya richer, deeper commitmenta more mature loveas we continue our journeyin another seasontogetherApril 23, 2006 8:10amCopyright by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010. All rights reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss for usage."
82,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",82,"2018-02-27 21:07:49",Anniversary,"Raymond A. Foss","An anniversaryOf a moment(if many hours can be but a moment)When pain brought a common numbingA shock, pride, and resolveSmoking buildingsBombed cavesA world awayFifth-five year beforeIn the midst of Pearl Harbor,A prescient son of Nippon postulated -A sleeping bear awokedBy a sudden attack,Again from the airThat forever changed our innocenceThe fallibility of our senseOf safety within our shoresThat danger is out there, over there, not hereBy hostile hands.Like squabbling siblingsUnited against the town’s bullyWho chose one of their ownA nation togetherRallying ‘round the flagTerrorists bewareWe will not forget this anniversaryAnd you don’t deserve flowers.Unless you want lilies.8/29/2002"
83,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",83,"2018-02-27 21:07:51",crematorium-return,"Rg Gregory","(to where the ashes of both my parents are strewn)i)ok the pair of you lie stillwhat's disturbing me need passno fretful hand over your peacethis world's vicissitudes are stalefodder for you who feed the grasssome particles of your two dustsby moon's wish accident or windmay have leapt that late-life woundrefound in you the rhapsodistsfirst-married days had twinnedi've come today in heavy raina storm barging through the treesto be a part of this fresh truceto dream myself to that serenedeath's eye-view no living seesa roaring motorway deridesmachine's exclusion from this placecozens what the gale implieswhile overhead a plane corrodesall feel of sanctuary and solacei cut the edges off the soundand let the storm absorb my skinmy drift unravelling as a skeinthrough paths no brain's designedi want the consciousness you're intoo much a strain - my mind can't clickto earthen voices (whispers signs)my eyes alert to this life's scenesmy ears are ticked to autumn's clockmy shoes crunch upon chestnut spines(ii)not a bird singing or flyingi seize upon such absence (herethe death-sense dares to split its hair)why with such a strong wind flowinginside the noises do calms appeartoday the weather is supreme it does away with frontiers - sweepsbreath into piles as it swapsashes for thoughts conjuring primelife-death from the bones it reapsabruptly flocks of leaves-made-birdsquit shaken branches (glide in grace)first soar then hover - sucked to grassflatten about me as soft-soaked boards matting me to this parent placeand then i'm easeful - a hand scoopsdissent away (leaves me as tree)settles the self down to its trueabasement where nothing escapesits wanting (earth flesh being free)i'm taken by your touchingthere's no skin between us nowas tree i am death's avenueyou are its fruits attachingdistilled ripeness to the boughi possess the step i came formy senses burst into still speechyour potent ashes give dispatchto life's tensions - i travel farrooted at this two-worlds' breach october 6th 1990 (seventh anniversary of my mother's cremation)"
3041,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",816,"2018-02-27 21:39:01","Without Freedom Still","Raymond A. Foss","We gathered, took time off,pondered our freedom,on the anniversaryour Declaration of Independencewhen we dissolved the political bondswhen we proclaimed, to the world,what we hoped for, what we believed inas a people, set apart, that we hold these truths to be self-evident,that we are born equal, each one,that the creator gave us unalienable rights,life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.How wondrous are those words, how much we have achievedcasting off the chains that hold us backhow far we have to go; butWe are free, by most measuresHow hard life must bein the many places on the globewhere people are not yet freewhere there are people stillin the grip of slavery, in bondage,in fear for their lives, for their children’s livesfor any kind of futurefor religious persecution,indiscriminant deathHow blind we are,to the realities around the worldHow silent we are to the evil that stalks this sphereHow much more we could doif we took our freedoms more seriouslyand invested in justice to the four cornersof this troubled planetJuly 4, 2007 20:36"
3040,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",3040,"2018-02-27 22:46:36",JIMMY,"Bhaskar Roy Barman","( A Poem in Remembrance)Bhaskar Roy BarmanJimmy,a black, snub-nosed bitch, a jaw shoved out, your eyes throwing forward a wrinkled reproachful look,your fur so brindled as to give one to understand you were not pure, receded into oblivion.Suddenly you intruded into our memory when we were observing the third death anniversaryof our Father.About this time three years agoFather was admitted to the hospitalbelieved to be a gateway to the abode of Death-he had suffered a stroke at the machination of a Death-messenger.Wifely-sonly-daughterly duties marshaled us round his bed in the hospital.No one had enjoined upon you the dogly dutyto be on guard over the house.We completely forgot about you;We forgot you have appetite to appease.We enjoyed staying in the hospitaland doing our duties turn by turn by our Father,for it turned out pleasanteating in one of the hotels that mushroomed around the hospitalto cater to the needs of relatives of the patientsadmitted to the hospitals.Over the seven days we stayed in the hospitalyou had guarded our house lest a thief break into it.Hunger had not deterred you from your dogly dutty no neighbour had given you food.When we brought home Father deadYou gave us mute solace,then succumbed to hunger."
3042,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",3042,"2018-02-27 22:46:38","Where Will They Attack","Raymond A. Foss","Would that I had the crystal ballto answer her quaking questiona day or two before the anniversaryof the attacks in her brother’s home townTo assuage her sudden fears,casual sharing of a presidential candidate’spositions, the flier in her lap,to discussions of terrorists,that they wouldn’t strike here,in our quiet city; but in the same kinds of places;but “that is where my brother lives…”“Where will they strike?”Truth that I don’t know, that wedo not know where the next attackwill come, when it will come;but truth too that if we change our lives,if we fear and let that freeze us,focus our thoughts too long there,they have won, as surely as when the attacks will comeResolve to continue onto live our lives, perhaps more humbly;but live our lives fullywithout fearing what the madmen may do orwhere they may attackSeptember 11, 2007 10:43AM"
84,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",84,"2018-02-27 21:07:52","Just Before April Came","Carl Sandburg","THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.The gravel of all shallow places shines.A white pigeon reels and somersaults. Frogs plutter and squdge—and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.I might ask: Who are these people?"
85,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",85,"2018-02-27 21:07:55","Over The Land Is April","Robert Louis Stevenson","OVER the land is April,Over my heart a rose;Over the high, brown mountainThe sound of singing goes.Say, love, do you hear me,Hear my sonnets ring?Over the high, brown mountain,Love, do you hear me sing?By highway, love, and bywayThe snows succeed the rose.Over the high, brown mountainThe wind of winter blows.Say, love, do you hear me,Hear my sonnets ring?Over the high, brown mountainI sound the song of spring,I throw the flowers of spring.Do you hear the song of spring?Hear you the songs of spring?"
86,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",86,"2018-02-27 21:07:59","My April Lady","Henry Van Dyke","When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughterAre bubbling in her throat;The gladness of her greetingIs gold without alloy;And in the morning sunlightI think her name is Joy. When in the evening twilightThe quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads,While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling,That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight,I think her name is Grief. My little April lady,Of sunshine and of showers, She weaves the old spring magic,And breaks my heart in flowers! But when her moods are ended,She nestles like a dove;Then, by the pain and rapture,I know her name is Love."
87,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",87,"2018-02-27 21:08:01","April's Charms","William Henry Davies","When April scatters charms of primrose gold Among the copper leaves in thickets old, And singing skylarks from the meadows rise, To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;When I can hear the small woodpecker ring Time on a tree for all the birds that sing; And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long -- The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;When I can hear the woodland brook, that could Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood; Upon these banks the violets make their home, And let a few small strawberry vlossoms come:When I go forth on such a pleasant day, One breath outdoors takes all my cares away; It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold Of wood that's green and fill a grate with gold."
88,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",88,"2018-02-27 21:08:01","An April Night","Lucy Maud Montgomery","The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,Where the ancient beeches are moist with budsOver the pools and the whimpering rills; And with her the mists, like dryads that creepFrom their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,With the wind on the hills their gay revellings. Down on the marshlands with flicker and glowWanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,Seeking for witch-gold lost long agoBy the glimmer of goblin lantern-light. The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,Akin to all eerie and elfin things,Who weaves about us in meadow and mereThe spell of a hundred vanished Springs."
89,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",89,"2018-02-27 21:08:03","A Calendar of Sonnets: April","Helen Hunt Jackson","No days such honored days as these! While yet Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide For some fair thing which should forever bide On earth, her beauteous memory to set In fitting frame that no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, eternally allied To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget. And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth, Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth, A holier symbol still in seal and sign, Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine, When Christ ascended, in the time of birth Of spring anemones, in Palestine."
90,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",90,"2018-02-27 21:08:03","So sweet love seemed that April morn","Robert Seymour Bridges","So sweet love seemed that April morn,When first we kissed beside the thorn,So strangely sweet, it was not strangeWe thought that love could never change.But I can tell--let truth be told--That love will change in growing old;Though day by day is naught to see,So delicate his motions be.And in the end 'twill come to passQuite to forget what once he was,Nor even in fancy to recallThe pleasure that was all in all.His little spring, that sweet we found,So deep in summer floods is drowned,I wonder, bathed in joy complete,How love so young could be so sweet."
91,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",91,"2018-02-27 21:08:08","April Rise","Laurie Lee","If ever I saw blessing in the air I see it now in this still early day Where lemon-green the vaporous morning drips Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye. Blown bubble-film of blue, the sky wraps round Weeds of warm light whose every root and rod Splutters with soapy green, and all the world Sweats with the bead of summer in its bud. If ever I heard blessing it is there Where birds in trees that shoals and shadows are Splash with their hidden wings and drops of sound Break on my ears their crests of throbbing air. Pure in the haze the emerald sun dilates, The lips of sparrows milk the mossy stones, While white as water by the lake a girl Swims her green hand among the gathered swans. Now, as the almond burns its smoking wick, Dropping small flames to light the candled grass; Now, as my low blood scales its second chance, If ever world were blessed, now it is."
92,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",92,"2018-02-27 21:08:12","Absent Place -- an April Day --","Emily Dickinson","Absent Place -- an April Day --Daffodils a-blowHomesick curiosityTo the Souls that snow --Drift may block within itDeeper than without --Daffodil delight butHim it duplicate --"
93,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",93,"2018-02-27 21:08:16",APRIL.,"Johann Wolfgang von Goethe","TELL me, eyes, what 'tis ye're seeking;For ye're saying something sweet,Fit the ravish'd ear to greet,Eloquently, softly speaking.Yet I see now why ye're roving;For behind those eyes so bright,To itself abandon'd quite,Lies a bosom, truthful, loving,--One that it must fill with pleasure'Mongst so many, dull and blind,One true look at length to find,That its worth can rightly treasure.Whilst I'm lost in studying everTo explain these cyphers duly,--To unravel my looks trulyIn return be your endeavour!1820."
94,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",94,"2018-02-27 21:08:17","The Shepheardes Calender: April","Edmund Spenser","APRILL: Ægloga QuartaTHENOT & HOBBINOLLTell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling tearesAdowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.HOBBINOLLNor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,But for the ladde, whome long I lovd so deare,Nowe loves a lasse, that all his love doth scorne:He plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare.Shepheards delights he dooth them all forsweare,Hys pleasaunt Pipe, whych made us meriment,He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeareHis wonted songs, wherein he all outwent.THENOTWhat is he for a Ladde, you so lament?Ys love such pinching payne to them, that prove?And hath he skill to make so excellent,Yet hath so little skill to brydle love?HOBBINOLLColin thou kenst, the Southerne shepheardes boye:Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte.Whilome on him was all my care and joye,Forcing with gyfts to winne his wanton heart.But now from me hys madding mynd is starte,And woes the Widdowes daughter of the glenne:So nowe fayre Rosalind hath bredde hys smart,So now his frend is chaunged for a frenne.THENOTBut if hys ditties bene so trimly dight,I pray thee Hobbinoll, recorde some one:The whiles our flockes doe graze about in sight,And we close shrowded in thys shade alone.HOBBINOLLContented I: then will I singe his layeOf fayre Elisa, Queene of shepheardes all:Which once he made, as by a spring he laye,And tuned it unto the Waters fall.Ye dayntye Nymphs, that in this blessed Brookedoe bathe your brest,Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke,at my request:And eke you Virgins, that on Parnasse dwell,Whence floweth Helicon the learned well,Helpe me to blazeHer worthy praise,Which in her sexe doth all excell.Of fayre Eliza be your silver song,that blessed wight:The flowre of Virgins, may shee florish long,In princely plight.For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte,Which Pan the shepheards God of her begot:So sprong her graceOf heavenly race,No mortall blemishe may her blotte.See, where she sits upon the grassie greene,(O seemely sight)Yclad in Scarlot like a mayden Queene,And Ermines white.Upon her head a Cremosin coronet,With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:Bayleaves betweene,And Primroses greeneEmbellish the sweete Violet.Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,Like Ph{oe}be fayre?Her heavenly haveour, her princely gracecan you well compare?The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,In either cheeke depeincten lively chere.Her modest eye,Her Majestie,Where have you seene the like, but there?I sawe Ph{oe}bus thrust out his golden hedde,upon her to gaze:But when he sawe, how broade her beames did spredde,it did him amaze.He blusht to see another Sunne belowe,Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:Let him, if he dare,His brightnesse compareWith hers, to have the overthrowe.Shewe thy selfe Cynthia with thy silver rayes,and be not abasht:When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,O how art thou dasht?But I will not match her with Latonaes seede,Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede.Now she is a stone,And makes dayly mone,Warning all other to take heede.Pan may be proud, that ever he begotsuch a Bellibone,And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lotto beare such an one.Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam,To her will I offer a milkwhite Lamb:Shee is my goddesse plaine,And I her shepherds swayne,Albee forswonck and forswatt I am.I see Calliope speede her to the place,where my Goddesse shines:And after her the other Muses trace,with their Violines.Bene they not Bay braunches, which they doe beare,All for Elisa in her hand to weare?So sweetely they play,And sing all the way,That it a heaven is to heare.Lo how finely the graces can it footeto the Instrument:They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,in their meriment.Wants not a fourth grace, to make the daunce even?Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven:She shalbe a grace,To fyll the fourth place,And reigne with the rest in heaven.And whither rennes this bevie of Ladies bright,raunged in a rowe?They bene all Ladyes of the lake behight,that unto her goe.Chloris, that is the chiefest Nymph of al,Of Olive braunches beares a Coronall:Olives bene for peace,When wars doe surcease:Such for a Princesse bene principall.Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene,hye you there apace:Let none come there, but that Virgins bene,to adorne her grace.And when you come, whereas shee is in place,See, that your rudeness doe not you disgrace:Binde your fillets faste,And gird in your waste,For more finesse, with a tawdrie lace.Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,With Gelliflowres:Bring Coronations, and Sops in wine,worne of Paramoures.Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:The pretie Pawnce,And the Chevisaunce,Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.Now ryse up Elisa, decked as thou art,in royall aray:And now ye daintie Damsells may departecheone her way,I feare, I have troubled your troupes to longe:Let dame Eliza thanke you for her song.And if you come hether,When Damsines I gether,I will part them all you among.THENOTAnd was thilk same song of Colins owne making?Ah foolish boy, that is with love yblent:Great pittie is, he be in such taking,For naught caren, that bene so lewdly bent.HOBBINOLLSicker I hold him, for a greater fon,That loves the thing, he cannot purchase.But let us homeward: for night draweth on,And twincling starres the daylight hence chase.THENOTS EMBLEMEO quam te memorem virgo?HOBBINOLLS EMBLEMEO dea certe."
95,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",95,"2018-02-27 21:08:22","Dream Song 47: April Fool's Day, or, St Mary of Egypt","John Berryman","—Thass a funny title, Mr Bones.—When down she saw her feet, sweet fish, on the threshold,she considered her fair shouldersand all them hundreds who have them, allthe more who to her mime thickened & maledfrom the supple stage,and seeing her feet, in a visit, side by sidepaused on the sill of The Tomb, she shrank: 'No.They are not worthy,fondled by many' and rushed from The Crucifiedback through her followers out of the city hoacross the suburbs, pluckyto dare my desert in her late daylightof animals and sands. She fall prone.Only wind whistled.And forty-seven years with our caps on,whom God has not visited."
96,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",96,"2018-02-27 21:08:25",April,"Louise Gluck","No one's despair is like my despair--You have no place in this gardenthinking such things, producingthe tiresome outward signs; the manpointedly weeding an entire forest,the woman limping, refusing to change clothesor wash her hair.Do you suppose I careif you speak to one another?But I mean you to knowI expected better of two creatureswho were given minds: if notthat you would actually care for each otherat least that you would understandgrief is distributedbetween you, among all your kind, for meto know you, as deep bluemarks the wild scilla, whitethe wood violet."
97,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",97,"2018-02-27 21:08:28","6th April 1651 L'Amitie: To Mrs. M. Awbrey","Katherine Philips","Soule of my soule! my Joy, my crown, my friend!A name which all the rest doth comprehend;How happy are we now, whose sols are grown,By an incomparable mixture, One:Whose well acquainted minds are not as neareAs Love, or vows, or secrets can endeare.I have no thought but what's to thee reveal'd,Nor thou desire that is from me conceal'd.Thy heart locks up my secrets richly set,And my breast is thy private cabinet.Thou shedst no teare but what but what my moisture lent,And if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent.United thus, what horrour can appeareWorthy our sorrow, anger, or our feare?Let the dull world alone to talk and fightAnd with their vast ambitions nature fright;Let them despise so innocent a flame,While Envy, pride, and faction play their game:But we by Love sublim'd so high shall rise,To pitty Kings, and Conquerours despise,Since we that sacred union have engrost,Which they and all the sullen world have lost."
98,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",98,"2018-02-27 21:08:31","April Is The Saddest Month","William Carlos Williams","There they werestuckdog and bitchhalving the compassThen when with his yipthey partedoh how frolicsomeshe grew before himplayfuldancing andhow disconsolatehe retreatedhang-dogshe followingthrough the shrubbery"
99,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",99,"2018-02-27 21:08:34","Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day","Delmore Schwartz","Calmly we walk through this April's day,Metropolitan poetry here and there,In the park sit pauper and rentier,The screaming children, the motor-carFugitive about us, running away,Between the worker and the millionaireNumber provides all distances,It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,Many great dears are taken away,What will become of you and me(This is the school in which we learn...)Besides the photo and the memory?(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)(This is the school in which we learn...)What is the self amid this blaze?What am I now that I was thenWhich I shall suffer and act again,The theodicy I wrote in my high school daysRestored all life from infancy,The children shouting are bright as they run(This is the school in which they learn . . .)Ravished entirely in their passing play!(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!Where is my father and Eleanor?Not where are they now, dead seven years,But what they were then? No more? No more?From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consumeNot where they are now (where are they now?)But what they were then, both beautiful;Each minute bursts in the burning room,The great globe reels in the solar fire,Spinning the trivial and unique away.(How all things flash! How all things flare!)What am I now that I was then?May memory restore again and againThe smallest color of the smallest day:Time is the school in which we learn,Time is the fire in which we burn."
100,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",100,"2018-02-27 21:08:38","April 19","David Lehman","We have too much exhibitionism and not enough voyeurismin poetry we have plenty of bassand not enough treble, more amberbeer than the frat boys can drink butless red wine than meets the lipin this beaker of the best Bordeaux,too much thesis, too little antithesisand way too much New York Timesin poetry we've had too much isolationismand too few foreign entanglementswe need more Baudelaire on the quai d'Anjou more olive trees and umbrella pines fewer leafless branches on the rue Auguste Comtetoo much sociology not enough Garcia Lorcamore colons and dashes fewer commasless love based on narrow self-interestmore lust based on a feast of kissestoo many novels too few poemstoo many poets not enough poetry"
101,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",101,"2018-02-27 21:08:40","April 21","David Lehman","I'm a very average person,and I think most people are.I vote with the common man.I have two kids, a boy and a girl.Last Sunday I played golf with the boss.Hey, it beats working.I'm his wife. I may be brainless butI'm her husband. I played golf with herLast Sunday I played golf with the bossand it was the first warm morning in Mayand like every other moron driving a lawnmowerI'm their husband. I may be brainless butI'm their wife. I'm their mother. I have two kids, a boy and a girl,and it was the first warm morning in Mayand I think most people arelike every other moron driving a lawnmower.I'm a very average person.I vote with the common man.Hey, it beats working."
102,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",102,"2018-02-27 21:08:42","April 24","David Lehman","Did you know that Evian spelled backwards is naive?I myself was unaware of this fact until last Tuesday nightwhen John Ashbery, Marc Cohen, and Eugene Richiegave a poetry reading and I introduced themto an audience that already knew them,and there were bottles of Evian at the table.As air to the lungs of a drowning man wasa glass of this water to my dry lips. I recommend itto you, a lover of palindromes, who will alsobe glad to learn that JA read us three ""chapters""of his new poem, ""Girls on the Run,"" a twelve-part saga inspired by girls' adventure stories, withcharacters named Dimples and Tidbit plus Talkative and Hopeful on loan from ""Pilgrim's Progress.""As Frank O'Hara would have said, ""it's the nuts.""The poets' books were on sale and afterwardstwo of the poets signed theirs happily and the thirddid so willingly and Joe took photos and I smiledfor the camera, shaking hands with peopleI knew or didn't know and thinking howblessed was the state of naivetemy naive belief in the glory of the word"
103,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",103,"2018-02-27 21:08:46","April 26","David Lehman","When my fatherSaid mein FehlerI thought it meant""I'm a failure""which was my errorwhich is whatmein Fehler meansin German whichis what my parentsspoke at home"
104,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",104,"2018-02-27 21:08:48","April 18","Sylvia Plath","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
105,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",105,"2018-02-27 21:08:53","Always Marry An April Girl","Ogden Nash","Praise the spells and bless the charms,I found April in my arms.April golden, April cloudy,Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;April soft in flowered languor,April cold with sudden anger,Ever changing, ever true --I love April, I love you."
106,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",106,"2018-02-27 21:08:54","An April Day","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","When the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth's loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods, and colored wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tideStand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April! many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life's golden fruit is shed."
107,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",107,"2018-02-27 21:08:57","Song Of A Second April","Edna St. Vincent Millay","April this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;Hepaticas that pleased you soAre here again, and butterflies.There rings a hammering all day,And shingles lie about the doors;In orchards near and far awayThe grey wood-pecker taps and bores;The men are merry at their chores,And children earnest at their play.The larger streams run still and deep,Noisy and swift the small brooks runAmong the mullein stalks the sheepGo up the hillside in the sun,Pensively,—only you are gone,You that alone I cared to keep."
108,5,"2018-02-27 20:10:32","April Poems",108,"2018-02-27 21:09:01","April Violet","Raymond A. Foss","A new bloomfrilly and pinkbetween the rich and greengrafted and grown by your handswarmed in the sungiven to megone but rememberedpreserved in resin,and memory6/4/04 20:50 – About a special new breed of violet that my paternal grandmother, Jessie Foss, gave me when I was a pre-teen. I preserved the bloom in resin, which cracked because of the moisture in it."
109,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",109,"2018-02-27 21:09:01","Autumn moonlight","Matsuo Basho","Autumn moonlight-- a worm digs silently into the chestnut."
110,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",110,"2018-02-27 21:09:03","SONNET OF AUTUMN","Charles Baudelaire","THEY say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: ""Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?"" Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine; And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know: Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite."
111,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",111,"2018-02-27 21:09:07","Autumn Movement","Carl Sandburg","I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts."
112,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",112,"2018-02-27 21:09:10","To Autumn","William Blake","O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'dWith the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitBeneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,And all the daughters of the year shall dance!Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.'The narrow bud opens her beauties toThe sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, andFlourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.'The spirits of the air live in the smellsOf fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves roundThe gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleakHills fled from our sight; but left his golden load."
113,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",113,"2018-02-27 21:09:10","Autumn Fires","Robert Louis Stevenson","In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail! Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!"
114,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",114,"2018-02-27 21:09:12","Autumn in the Garden","Henry Van Dyke","When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the darkMakes its markOn the flowers, and the misty morning grievesOver fallen leaves;Then my olden garden, where the golden soilThrough the toilOf a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,Whispers in its sleep.'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,Where the boxBorders with its glossy green the ancient walks,There's a voice that talksOf the human hopes that bloomed and withered hereYear by year,--Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,Fading as the flowers.Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;But reliefFor the loneliness of sorrow seems to flowFrom the Long-Ago,When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,To resign,And remember that the sadness of the fallComes alike to all.What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!And what prayersFor the silent strength that nerves us to endureThings we cannot cure!Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,I have tracedAll their well-worn paths of patience, till I findComfort in my mind.Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:Yet how nearIs the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,Of the human race!Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,Not apart!They who know the sorrows other lives have knownNever walk alone."
115,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",115,"2018-02-27 21:09:15","Autumn Song","Katherine Mansfield","Now's the time when children's nosesAll become as red as rosesAnd the colour of their facesMakes me think of orchard placesWhere the juicy apples grow,And tomatoes in a row.And to-day the hardened sinnerNever could be late for dinner,But will jump up to the tableJust as soon as he is able,Ask for three times hot roast mutton--Oh! the shocking little glutton.Come then, find your ball and racket,Pop into your winter jacket,With the lovely bear-skin lining.While the sun is brightly shining,Let us run and play togetherAnd just love the autumn weather."
116,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",116,"2018-02-27 21:09:19","Autumn Perspective","Erica Jong","Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,the radio playing to bare walls,picture hooks left strandedin the unsoiled squares where paintings were,and something reminding usthis is like all other moving days;finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,and burned-out matches in the corner;things not preserved, yet never swept awaylike fragments of disturbing dreamswe stumble on all day. . .in ordering our lives, we will discard them,scrub clean the floorboards of this our homelest refuse from the lives we did not leadbecome, in some strange, frightening way, our own.And we have plans that will not tolerateour fears-- a year laid out like roomsin a new house--the dusty wine glassesrinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelvessagging with heavy winter books.Seeing the room always as it will be,we are content to dust and wait.We will return here from the dark and silentstreets, arms full of books and food,anxious as we always are in winter,and looking for the Good Life we have made.I see myself then: tense, solemn,in high-heeled shoes that pinch,not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,but looking back to now and seeinga lazy, sunburned, sandaled girlin a bare room, full of promiseand feeling envious.Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forwardinto the future--as if, when the roomcontains us and all our treasured junkwe will have filled whatever gap it isthat makes us wander, discontentedfrom ourselves.The room will not change:a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paintwon't make much difference;our eyes are ficklebut we remain the same beneath our suntans,pale, frightened,dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,dreaming our dreaming selves.I look forward and see myself looking back."
117,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",117,"2018-02-27 21:09:21","Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn","Carl Sandburg","SMOKE of autumn is on it all.The streamers loosen and travel.The red west is stopped with a gray haze.They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks,They make a long-tailed riderIn the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.. . .Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River. There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold. (A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I. W. W. man in Vladivostok.) I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glow, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold.. . .Better the blue silence and the gray west,The autumn mist on the river,And not any hate and not any love,And not anything at all of the keen and the deep:Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor,And the new corn shoveled in bushelsAnd the pumpkins brought from the corn rows,Umber lights of the dark,Umber lanterns of the loam dark. Here a dog head dreams.Not any hate, not any love.Not anything but dreams.Brother of dusk and umber."
118,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",118,"2018-02-27 21:09:22","An Autumn Evening","Lucy Maud Montgomery","Dark hills against a hollow crocus skyScarfed with its crimson pennons, and below The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lieCradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow And wake among the harps of leafless trees Fantastic runes and mournful melodies. The chilly purple air is threaded throughWith silver from the rising moon afar, And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blueIn the southwest glimmers a great gold star Above the darkening druid glens of fir Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir. And so I wander through the shadows still,And look and listen with a rapt delight, Pausing again and yet again at willTo drink the elusive beauty of the night, Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, That with divine enchantment is brimmed up."
119,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",119,"2018-02-27 21:09:24","By an Autumn Fire","Lucy Maud Montgomery","Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, Poignant and keen And all the great boughs of the pines between It is harping a lone and hungering strain To the eldritch weeping of the rain; And then to the wild, wet valley flying It is seeking, sighing, Something lost in the summer olden. When night was silver and day was golden; But out on the shore the waves are moaning With ancient and never fulfilled desire, And the spirits of all the empty spaces, Of all the dark and haunted places, With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces, Come to the lure of our leaping fire. But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor From our blithe domain, And drown the whimper of wind and rain With undaunted laughter, echoing long, Cheery old tale and gay old song; Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition, Attained ambition. Ours is the treasure of tested loving, Friendship that needs no further proving; No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain,Here we have largess of summer in fee­Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping,At bay the chill of the autumn keeping,While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reapingIn the fairest meadow of memory!"
120,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",120,"2018-02-27 21:09:26",Autumn,"William Morris","Laden Autumn here I standWorn of heart, and weak of hand:Nought but rest seems good to me,Speak the word that sets me free."
121,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",121,"2018-02-27 21:09:27",Autumn,"Thomas Hood","I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;— Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?—Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?— Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drownèd past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;— There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,—and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!"
122,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",122,"2018-02-27 21:09:29","A Song of Autumn","Adam Lindsay Gordon","‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere? Where are the old ones that once we had, And when are the new ones near? What shall we do for our garlands glad At the falling of the year?’ ‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go? Can I say where the lost leaves veer On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, When they drift through the dead-wood drear? Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, You may gather again, my dear— But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go At the falling of the year.’"
123,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",123,"2018-02-27 21:09:33","Autumnal Sonnet","William Allingham","Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hold, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory,--when distant lies Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve."
124,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",124,"2018-02-27 21:09:34","Late Autumn","William Allingham","October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief Only a robin sings from any spray. And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills White mist around the hollows of the hills,Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees, Islanded; but no foolish terror thrillsHis perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease."
125,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",125,"2018-02-27 21:09:37","Autumn Song","Sarojini Naidu","Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, The sunset hangs on a cloud;A golden storm of glittering sheaves,Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, The wild wind blows in a cloud.Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind:My heart is weary and sad and alone,For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?"
126,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",126,"2018-02-27 21:09:43","The Autumn","Elizabeth Barrett Browning","Go, sit upon the lofty hill,And turn your eyes around,Where waving woods and waters wildDo hymn an autumn sound.The summer sun is faint on them --The summer flowers depart --Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,Except your musing heart.How there you sat in summer-time,May yet be in your mind;And how you heard the green woods singBeneath the freshening wind.Though the same wind now blows around,You would its blast recall;For every breath that stirs the trees,Doth cause a leaf to fall.Oh! like that wind, is all the mirthThat flesh and dust impart:We cannot bear its visitings,When change is on the heart.Gay words and jests may make us smile,When Sorrow is asleep;But other things must make us smile,When Sorrow bids us weep!The dearest hands that clasp our hands, --Their presence may be o'er;The dearest voice that meets our ear,That tone may come no more!Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,Which once refresh'd our mind,Shall come -- as, on those sighing woods,The chilling autumn wind.Hear not the wind -- view not the woods;Look out o'er vale and hill-In spring, the sky encircled them --The sky is round them still.Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --Come change -- and human fate!Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,Can ne'er be desolate."
127,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",127,"2018-02-27 21:09:46","An Autumn Reverie","William Topaz McGonagall","Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,And the face of Nature doth seem dead, And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze. The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,And with the cold many of them will be found dead,Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast. Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the stormOn a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain. But still they are more contented than the children of God,As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,Or anything they can get to eat,Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat. Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home. Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head. While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,While the poor are starving, both young and old;Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command. Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad. Because for his wife and family he must feel,And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to stealBread for his family, that are starving at home,While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan. Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,And few people can their temper control,Or become reconciled to their fate,Especially when they cannot find anything to eat. Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard. Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,Running about perhaps with bare feet;And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,In general they make a sudden retreat."
128,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",128,"2018-02-27 21:09:47","In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan","Robert Seymour Bridges","In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence, 'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon In melancholy and godlike indolence: When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime To fond pretence of immortality, Vieweth all moments from the birth of time, All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent, The ruin of old life is full of yearning, Mingling poetic rapture of lament With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning; Only in visions of the white air wan By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon."
129,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",129,"2018-02-27 21:09:48","Autumn Birds","John Clare","The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,And heron slow as if it might be caught.The flopping crows on weary wings go byAnd grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,And darken like a clod the evening sky.The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.The wild swan hurries hight and noises loudWith white neck peering to the evening clowd.The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.With lengths of tail the magpie winnows onTo neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crowWhile small birds nestle in the edge below."
130,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",130,"2018-02-27 21:09:52","As Summer into Autumn slips","Emily Dickinson","As Summer into Autumn slipsAnd yet we sooner say""The Summer"" than ""the Autumn,"" lestWe turn the sun away,And almost count it an AffrontThe presence to concedeOf one however lovely, notThe one that we have loved --So we evade the charge of YearsOn one attempting shyThe Circumvention of the ShaftOf Life's Declivity."
131,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",131,"2018-02-27 21:09:56","Autumn Love","Li Ching Chao","Search. Search. Seek. Seek. Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear. Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain. Hot flashes. Sudden chills. Stabbing pains. Slow agonies. I can find no peace. I drink two cups, then three bowls, Of clear wine until I can’t Stand up against a gust of wind. Wild geese fly over head. They wrench my heart. They were our friends in the old days. Gold chrysanthemums litter The ground, pile up, faded, dead. This season I could not bear To pick them. All alone, Motionless at my window, I watch the gathering shadows. Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees, And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk. What can I ever do now? How can I drive off this word — Hopelessness?"
132,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",132,"2018-02-27 21:09:59","The name -- of it -- is ""Autumn"" --","Emily Dickinson","The name -- of it -- is ""Autumn"" --The hue -- of it -- is Blood --An Artery -- upon the Hill --A Vein -- along the Road --Great Globules -- in the Alleys --And Oh, the Shower of Stain --When Winds -- upset the Basin --And spill the Scarlet Rain --It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --It gathers ruddy Pools --Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --Upon Vermilion Wheels --"
133,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",133,"2018-02-27 21:10:02","Elegy IX: The Autumnal","John Donne","No spring nor summer Beauty hath such graceAs I have seen in one autumnall face.Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape.If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame,Affection here takes Reverence's name.Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true,But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.That was her torrid and inflaming time,This is her tolerable Tropique clime.Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,He in a fever wishes pestilence.Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,They were Love's graves; for else he is no where.Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sitVowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where,In progress, yet his standing house is here.Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;Where no voluptuousness, yet all delightIn all her words, unto all hearers fit,You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood;There he, as wine in June enrages blood,Which then comes seasonabliest, when our tasteAnd appetite to other things is past.Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,Was loved for age, none being so large as she,Or else because, being young, nature did blessHer youth with age's glory, Barrenness.If we love things long sought, Age is a thingWhich we are fifty years in compassing;If transitory things, which soon decay,Age must be loveliest at the latest day.But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack;Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,To vex their souls at Resurrection;Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,For these, not ancient, but antique be.I hate extremes; yet I had rather stayWith tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.Since such love's natural lation is, may stillMy love descend, and journey down the hill,Not panting after growing beauties so,I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go."
3098,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",775,"2018-02-27 21:37:19","Autumn Begins In Martins Ferry, Ohio","James Wright","In the Shreve High football stadium,I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,Dreaming of heroes.All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.Their women cluck like starved pullets,Dying for love.Therefore,Their sons grow suicidally beautifulAt the beginning of October,And gallop terribly against each other's bodies."
3097,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",1836,"2018-02-27 22:16:16","An Autumn Rain-Scene","Thomas Hardy","There trudges one to a merry-making With sturdy swing, On whom the rain comes down.To fetch the saving medicament Is another bent, On whom the rain comes down.One slowly drives his herd to the stall Ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down.This bears his missives of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down.One watches for signals of wreck or war From the hill afar, On whom the rain comes down.No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves on, On whom the rain comes down.And another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him aat all, On whom the rain comes down."
3093,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3093,"2018-02-27 22:46:38","Autumn -- overlooked my Knitting --","Emily Dickinson","Autumn -- overlooked my Knitting --Dyes -- said He -- have I --Could disparage a Flamingo --Show Me them -- said I --Cochineal -- I chose -- for deemingIt resemble Thee --And the little Border -- Dusker --For resembling Me --"
3094,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3094,"2018-02-27 22:46:42","Besides the Autumn poets sing","Emily Dickinson","Besides the Autumn poets singA few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the Haze --A few incisive Mornings --A few Ascetic Eves --Gone -- Mr. Bryant's ""Golden Rod"" --And Mr. Thomson's ""sheaves.""Still, is the bustle in the Brook --Sealed are the spicy valves --Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe Eyes of many Elves --Perhaps a squirrel may remain --My sentiments to share --Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind --Thy windy will to bear!"
3095,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3095,"2018-02-27 22:46:46","No Autumn's intercepting Chill","Emily Dickinson","No Autumn's intercepting ChillAppalls this Tropic Breast --But African ExuberanceAnd Asiatic rest."
3096,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3096,"2018-02-27 22:46:48","AUTUMN FEELINGS.","Johann Wolfgang von Goethe","FLOURISH greener, as ye clamber,Oh ye leaves, to seek my chamber,Up the trellis'd vine on high!May ye swell, twin-berries tender,Juicier far,--and with more splendourRipen, and more speedily!O'er ye broods the sun at evenAs he sinks to rest, and heavenSoftly breathes into your earAll its fertilising fullness,While the moon's refreshing coolness,Magic-laden, hovers near;And, alas! ye're watered everBy a stream of tears that rillFrom mine eyes--tears ceasing never,Tears of love that nought can still!1775.*"
3099,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3099,"2018-02-27 22:46:51","A Song of an Autumn Night.","Wang Wei","Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew Has chilled the robe she will not change -- And she touches a silver lute all night, Afraid to go back to her empty room."
3100,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3100,"2018-02-27 22:46:51","Autumn And Winter","Algernon Charles Swinburne","Three months bade wane and wax the wintering moonBetween two dates of death, while men were fainYet of the living light that all too soonThree months bade wane.Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain,Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tuneThat death smote silent when he smote again.First went my friend, in life's mid light of noon,Who loved the lord of music: then the strainWhence earth was kindled like as heaven in JuneThree months bade wane.A herald soul before its master's flyingTouched by some few moons first the darkling goalWhere shades rose up to greet the shade, espyingA herald soul;Shades of dead lords of music, who controlMen living by the might of men undying,With strength of strains that make delight of dole.The deep dense dust on death's dim threshold lyingTrembled with sense of kindling sound that stoleThrough darkness, and the night gave ear, descryingA herald soul.One went before, one after, but so fastThey seem gone hence together, from the shoreWhence we now gaze: yet ere the mightier passedOne went before;One whose whole heart of love, being set of yoreOn that high joy which music lends us, castLight round him forth of music's radiant store.Then went, while earth on winter glared aghast,The mortal god he worshipped, through the doorWherethrough so late, his lover to the last,One went before.A star had set an hour before the sunSank from the skies wherethrough his heart's pulse yetThrills audibly: but few took heed, or none,A star had set.All heaven rings back, sonorous with regret,The deep dirge of the sunset: how should oneSoft star be missed in all the concourse met?But, O sweet single heart whose work is done,Whose songs are silent, how should I forgetThat ere the sunset's fiery goal was wonA star had set?"
3101,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3101,"2018-02-27 22:46:54",Autumn,"Stevie Smith","He told his life story to Mrs. CourtlyWho was a widow. 'Let us get married shortly',He said. 'I am no longer passionate,But we can have some conversation before it is too late.'"
3102,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3102,"2018-02-27 22:46:55","Autumn: A Dirge","Percy Bysshe Shelley","The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each goneTo his dwelling.Come, Months, come away;Put on white, black and gray;Let your light sisters play--Ye, follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And make her grave green with tear on tear."
3103,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3103,"2018-02-27 22:47:00","To Autumn","John Keats","ISeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.IIWho hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.IIIWhere are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."
3104,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3104,"2018-02-27 22:47:03","Ode To Autumn","John Keats","Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."
3105,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3105,"2018-02-27 22:47:04",Autumn,"Walter Savage Landor","MILD is the parting year, and sweet The odour of the falling spray; Life passes on more rudely fleet, And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its gloom, But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all."
3106,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3106,"2018-02-27 22:47:04","Dolor of Autumn","David Herbert Lawrence","The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn And the snore of the night in my ear. For suddenly, flush-fallen, All my life, in a rush Of shedding away, has left me Naked, exposed on the bush. I, on the bush of the globe, Like a newly-naked berry, shrinkDisclosed: but I also am prowling As well in the scents that slink Abroad: I in this naked berry Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush;And I in the stealthy, brindled odoursProwling about the lush And acrid night of autumn; My soul, along with the rout, Rank and treacherous, prowling,Disseminated out.For the night, with a great breath intaken,Has taken my spirit outside Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness,Like a man who has died. At the same time I stand exposedHere on the bush of the globe, A newly-naked berry of flesh For the stars to probe."
3107,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3107,"2018-02-27 22:47:06","Merry Autumn","Paul Laurence Dunbar","It's all a farce,—these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying. Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn. In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing. Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow. The seed burs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson. A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter. The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses. The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it. Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender. Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving."
3108,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3108,"2018-02-27 22:47:10","Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn","Les Murray","That slim creek out of the skythe dried-blood western gum treeis all stir in its high reaches: its strung haze-blue foliage is dancingpoints down in breezy mobs, swappingpace and place in an all-over sway retarded en masse by crimson blossom.Bees still at work up there tackaround their exploded furry likeness and the lawn underneath's a napped rugof eyelash drift, of blooms flaredlike a sneeze in a redhaired nostril, minute urns, pinch-sized rocketsknocked down by winds, by night-creakingfig-squirting bats, or the daily parrot gang with green pocketknife wings.Bristling food tough delicateraucous life, each flower comes as a spray in its own turned vase,a taut starbust, honeyed modelof the tree's fragrance crisping in your head. When the japanese plum tree was shedding in spring, we speculatedthere among the drizzling petals what kind of exquisitely preciousartistic bloom might be genderedin a pure ethereal compost of petals potted as they fell.From unpetalled gun-debriswe know what is grown continually, a tower of fabulous swish tatters,a map hoisted upright, a crustedriverbed with up-country show towns."
3109,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3109,"2018-02-27 22:47:11",Autumn,"P. K. Page","Whoever has no house now will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening And wander on the boulevards, up and down... - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria RilkeIts stain is everywhere.The sharpening airof late afternoonis now the colour of tea.Once-glycerined green leavesburned by a summer sunare brittle and ochre.Night enters day like a thief.And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.Whoever has no house now will never have one.It is the best and the worst time.Around a fire, everyone laughing,brocaded curtains drawn,nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.The whole world is a cupone could hold in one's hand like a stonewarmed by that same summer sun.But the dead or the near deadare now all knucklebone.Whoever is alone will stay alone.Nothing to do. Nothing to really do.Toast and tea are nothing.Kettle boils dry.Shut the night out or let it in,it is a cat on the wrong side of the doorwhichever side it is on. A black thingwith its implacable face.To avoid it youwill tell yourself you are something,will sit, read, write long letters through the evening.Even though there is bounty, a full harvestthat sharp sweetness in the tea-stained airis reserved for those who have made a strawfine as a hair to suck it through-fine as a golden hair.Wearing a smile or a frownGod's face is always there.It is up to youif you take your wintry restlessness into the townand wander on the boulevards, up and down."
3110,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3110,"2018-02-27 22:47:14","Autumn River Song","Li Po","The moon shimmers in green water.White herons fly through the moonlight.The young man hears a girl gathering water-chestnuts:into the night, singing, they paddle home together."
3111,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3111,"2018-02-27 22:47:18","Autumn Day","Rainer Maria Rilke","Four TranslationsLord: it is time. The summer was immense.Lay your shadow on the sundialsand let loose the wind in the fields.Bid the last fruits to be full;give them another two more southerly days,press them to ripeness, and chasethe last sweetness into the heavy wine. Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time,will stay up, read, write long letters,and wander the avenues, up and down,restlessly, while the leaves are blowing. Translated by Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann, ""The Essential Rilke"" (Ecco) Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.Lay your shadow on the sundials now,and through the meadow let the winds throng.Ask the last fruits to ripen on the vine;give them further two more summer daysto bring about perfection and to raisethe final sweetness in the heavy wine. Whoever has no house now will establish none,whoever lives alone now will live on long alone,will waken, read, and write long letters,wander up and down the barren pathsthe parks expose when the leaves are blown. Translated by William Gass, ""Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problem of Translation"" (Knopf)Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,and on the meadows let the wind go free.Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;grant them a few more warm transparent days,urge them on to fulfillment then, and pressthe final sweetness into the heavy wine. Whoever has no house now, will never have one.Whoever is alone will stay alone,will sit, read, write long letters through theevening,and wander the boulevards, up and down,restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.Translated by Stephen Mitchell, ""The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke"" (Random House)Lord, it is time now,for the summer has gone onand gone on.Lay your shadow along the sun-dials and in the fieldlet the great wind blow free.Command the last fruitbe ripe:let it bow down the vine -- with perhaps two sun-warm daysmore to force the lastsweetness in the heavy wine. He who has no homewill not build one now.He who is alonewill stay longalone, will wake up,read, write long letters,and walk in the streets,walk by in thestreets when the leaves blow.Translated by John Logan, ""Homage to Rainer Maria Rilke,"" (BOA Editions)Original GermanHerbsttagHerr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los. Befiehl den letzten Fruchten voll zu sein;gieb innen noch zwei sudlichere Tage,drange sie zur Vollendung hin und jagedie letzte Susse in den schweren Wein. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreibenund wird in den Alleen hin und herunruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben. -- Rainer Maria Rilke, Paris, Sept. 21, 1902"
3112,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3112,"2018-02-27 22:47:20",Autumn,"Siegfried Sassoon","October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leavesScattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head."
3113,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3113,"2018-02-27 22:47:21","Underwater Autumn","Richard Hugo","Now the summer perch flips twice and glidesa lateral fathom at the first cold rain,the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heartlocked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced)above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreamsand curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass.Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear,the moving crayfish claw, the stareof sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand,a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge.How do carp resolve the eel and terror here?They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leavespredicting weather foreign as a shark or prawnand floating still above them in the paling sun."
3114,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3114,"2018-02-27 22:47:21","An Autumn Sunset","Edith Wharton","ILeaguered in fireThe wild black promontories of the coast extendTheir savage silhouettes;The sun in universal carnage sets,And, halting higher,The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,That, balked, yet stands at bay.Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated dayIn wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shineAcross the ensanguined ruins of the fray,And in her hand swings high o'erhead,Above the waste of war,The silver torch-light of the evening starWherewith to search the faces of the dead.IILagooned in gold,Seem not those jetty promontories ratherThe outposts of some ancient land forlorn,Uncomforted of morn, Where old oblivions gather,The melancholy unconsoling foldOf all things that go utterly to deathAnd mix no more, no moreWith life's perpetually awakening breath?Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,Over such sailless seas,To walk with hope's slain importunitiesIn miserable marriage? Nay, shall notAll things be there forgot,Save the sea's golden barrier and the blackClose-crouching promontories?Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade,A spectre self-destroyed,So purged of all remembrance and sucked backInto the primal void,That should we on that shore phantasmal meetI should not know the coming of your feet?"
3115,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3115,"2018-02-27 22:47:22","I am the autumnal sun","Henry David Thoreau","Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature -- not his Father but his Mother stirs within him, and he becomes immortal with herimmortality. From time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from her veins steals up into our own.I am the autumnal sun,With autumn gales my race is run;When will the hazel put forth its flowers,Or the grape ripen under my bowers?When will the harvest or the hunter's moonTurn my midnight into mid-noon?I am all sere and yellow,And to my core mellow.The mast is dropping within my woods,The winter is lurking within my moods,And the rustling of the withered leafIs the constant music of my grief...."
3116,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3116,"2018-02-27 22:47:24","Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation","Stanley Kunitz","Since that first morning when I crawledinto the world, a naked grubby thing,and found the world unkind,my dearest faith has been that thisis but a trial: I shall be changed.In my imaginings I have already spentmy brooding winter underground,unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbedinto the air, free as a puff of cloudto sail over the steaming fields,alighting anywhere I pleased,thrusting into deep tubular flowers.It is not so: there may be nectarin those cups, but not for me.All day, all night, I carry on my backembedded in my flesh, two rowsof little white cocoons,so neatly stackedthey look like eggs in a crate.And I am eaten half away.If I can gather strength enoughI'll try to burrow under a stoneand spin myself a pursein which to sleep away the cold;though when the sun kisses the earthagain, I know I won't be there.Instead, out of my chrysaliswill break, like robbers from a tomb,a swarm of parasitic flies,leaving my wasted husk behind.Sir, you with the red snippersin your hand, hovering over me,casting your shadow, I greet you,whether you come as an angel of deathor of mercy. But tell me,before you choose to slice me in two:Who can understand the ways of the Great Worm in the Sky?"
3117,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3117,"2018-02-27 22:47:25","Late Autumn In Venice","Delmore Schwartz","(After Rilke)The city floats no longer like a baitTo hook the nimble darting summer days.The glazed and brittle palaces pulsate and radiateAnd glitter. Summer's garden sways,A heap of marionettes hanging down and dangled,Leaves tired, torn, turned upside down and strangled:Until from forest depths, from bony leafless treesA will wakens: the admiral, lolling long at ease,Has been commanded, overnight -- suddenly --:In the first dawn, all galleys put to sea!Waking then in autumn chill, amid the harbor medley,The fragrance of pitch, pennants aloft, the buttOf oars, all sails unfurled, the fleetAwaits the great wind, radiant and deadly."
3118,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3118,"2018-02-27 22:47:27","Words For A Trumpet Chorale Celebrating The Autumn","Delmore Schwartz","""The trumpet is a brilliant instrument."" - Dietrich BuxtehudeCome and come forth and come up from the cup ofYour dumbness, stunned and numb, come withThe statues and believed in,Thinking this is nothing, deceived. Come to the summer and sun, Come see upon that height, and that sum In the seedtime of the winter's absolute, How yearly the phoenix inhabits the fruit. Behold, above all, how the tall ball Called the body is but a drum, but a bell Summoning the soul To rise from the catacomb of sleep and fear To the blaze and death of summer,Rising from the lithe forms of the pureFurs of the rising flames, slender and supple,Which are the consummation of the blaze of fall and of all."
3119,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3119,"2018-02-27 22:47:31","Frog Autumn","Sylvia Plath","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
3120,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3120,"2018-02-27 22:47:31","Autumn Valentine","Dorothy Parker","In May my heart was breaking-Oh, wide the wound, and deep!And bitter it beat at waking,And sore it split in sleep.And when it came November,I sought my heart, and sighed,""Poor thing, do you remember?""""What heart was that?"" it cried."
3121,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3121,"2018-02-27 22:47:33",AUTUMN,"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal handOutstretched with benedictions o'er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspendedSo long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!"
3122,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3122,"2018-02-27 22:47:34",AUTUMN,"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal handOutstretched with benedictions o'er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspendedSo long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!"
3123,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3123,"2018-02-27 22:47:36","Autumn Within","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","It is autumn; not withoutBut within me is the cold.Youth and spring are all about;It is I that have grown old.Birds are darting through the air,Singing, building without rest;Life is stirring everywhere,Save within my lonely breast.There is silence: the dead leavesFall and rustle and are still;Beats no flail upon the sheaves,Comes no murmur from the mill."
3124,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3124,"2018-02-27 22:47:39","Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening","Amy Lowell","After a Print by George CruikshankIt was a gusty night,With the wind booming, and swooping,Looping round corners,Sliding over the cobble-stones,Whipping and veering,And careering over the roofsLike a thousand clattering horses.Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city,Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait,And the wind played ball with Mr. SprugginsAnd laughed as it whistled past him.It rolled him along the street,With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk,And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him.It bumped him against area railings,And chuckled in his ear when he said ""Ouch!""Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feetAnd bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter.The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking.It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins,And when the wind flung him hard against his own front doorIt was a relief,Although the breath was quite knocked out of him.The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up,And the keyhole was as big as a barn door;The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star,And the keyhole went out with it.Such a stabbing, and jabbing,And sticking, and picking,And poking, and pushing, and pryingWith that key;And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two,Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll.But the door opened at last,And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hallAnd slammed the door to so hardThat the knocker banged five times before it stopped.Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle,And all the time the moon winked at him through the window.""Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?""Taunted the wind.""I can find the keyhole.""And the wind, thin as a wire,Darted in and seized the candle flameAnd knocked it over to one sideAnd pummelled it down -- down -- down --!But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin,And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner,For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, ""Spruggins! Spruggins!""behind him.The fire in his bedroom burned brightly.The room with its crimson bed and window curtainsWas as red and glowing as a carbuncle.It was still and warm.There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened;And no moon,For the curtains were drawn.The candle flame stood up like a pointed pearIn a wide brass dish.Mr. Spruggins sighed with content;He was safe at home.The fire glowed -- red and yellow rosesIn the black basket of the grate --And the bed with its crimson hangingsSeemed a great peony,Wide open and placid.Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler.He slipped off his bottle-green coatAnd his flowered waistcoat.He put on a flannel dressing-gown,And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin.He wound his large gold watchAnd placed it under his pillow.Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain.There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds;But behind him was his quiet candle.There was the wind whisking along the street.The window rattled, but it was fastened.Did the wind say, ""Spruggins""?All Mr. Spruggins heard was ""S-s-s-s-s --""Dying away down the street.He dropped the curtain and got into bed.Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan;The bed was warm,And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers,With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head.Mr. Spruggins dozed.He had forgotten to put out the candle,But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright . . .Too bright!The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids,They scorched him back to consciousness.He tried to shift his position;He could not move.Something weighed him down,He could not breathe.He was gasping,Pinned down and suffocating.He opened his eyes.The curtains of the window were flung back,The fire and the candle were out,And the room was filled with green moonlight.And pressed against the window-paneWas a wide, round face,Winking -- winking --Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other.Tick -- tock -- went the watch under his pillow,Wink -- wink -- went the face at the window.It was not the fire roses which had pricked him,It was the winking eyes.Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up;He could not, because --His heart flapped up into his mouthAnd fell back dead.On his chest was a fat pink pig,On the pig a blackamoorWith a ten pound weight for a cap.His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes,And his eyes rolled round and round,With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing,And appearing again on the other side.The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles,And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar,While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind.He dug his spurs into the pig,Which trampled and snorted,And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins.Then the green light on the floor began to undulate.It heaved and hollowed,It rose like a tide,Sea-green,Full of claws and scalesAnd wriggles.The air above his bed began to move;It weighed over himIn a mass of draggled feathers.Not one lifted to stir the air.They drooped and drippedWith a smell of port wine and brandy,Closing down, slowly,Trickling drops on the bed-quilt.Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass,And the moon burst into the room,Sizzling -- ""S-s-s-s-s -- Spruggins! Spruggins!""It rolled toward him,A green ball of flame,With two eyes in the center,A red eye and a yellow eye,Dropping their lids slowly,One after the other.Mr. Spruggins tried to scream,But the blackamoorLeapt off his pigWith a cry,Drew his scimitar,And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth.Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawnAnd remade the fire.Then he crept back to bedBy the light which seeped in under the window curtains,And lay there, shivering,While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven."
3125,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3125,"2018-02-27 22:47:42","Autumn Daybreak","Edna St. Vincent Millay","Cold wind of autumn, blowing loudAt dawn, a fortnight overdue,Jostling the doors, and tearing throughMy bedroom to rejoin the cloud,I know—for I can hear the hissAnd scrape of leaves along the floor—How may boughs, lashed bare by this,Will rake the cluttered sky once more.Tardy, and somewhat south of east,The sun will rise at length, made knownMore by the meagre light increasedThan by a disk in splendour shown;When, having but to turn my head,Through the stripped maple I shall see,Bleak and remembered, patched with red,The hill all summer hid from me."
3126,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3126,"2018-02-27 22:47:44","The Death Of Autumn","Edna St. Vincent Millay","When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike aged warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,—but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?"
3127,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3127,"2018-02-27 22:47:46","Autumnal Diorama","Raymond A. Foss","Early morningCrisp AirGray ridged barkGreen lawn, leaf clutter underfootWisps of fog off the pondGreen treesOrange treesJuxtaposedSplash of sunlightClouds pastedFor accentBackdrop of bluePure, unblemished, unbrokenScreens, curtains, stagesetsTransparency overlaysLayers placedScene set9/11/03 – 10:30 to 12:16 – lots of revisions along the way"
3128,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3128,"2018-02-27 22:47:47","When it was autumn in Eden","Ian Emberson","When it was autumn in Edenand chestnuts held golden leavesagainst dimming light ,Eve touched her toes on the sodden soil - ran fingers through harvest sheaves- feeling all things were right :and hip and haw turned red - the sloe to duskand swallows gathered in flocks with waitful wings .Then an east wind blew - quite suddenleaves of the beech - the ashwithered and fell ,and beyond the branches of Edenthe grey clouds split with a gashlike a hint of hell :and the hedgehog delved in the mould ,whilst the swallows flew south .It was then that Eve first sensed warmth had gone out of the air- abruptly she felt alone unnerved by the strange immense vastness - was it despair ? -bird song became subdued and changed its tone ,and somehow it troubled her mind that the trees were leafless now .At once she went and searched for Adam , setting her sightson a trembling star ;moving tight lips she beseeched God that all heaven's lightsshine from afar ;but she had to grope on - confused- bemused by forebodings of pain .At last she found him thereclose by their bower - in thoughtful moodlit by dim light ;and at that sight all her despairmelted , her mind felt imbuedwith warmth , joy , comfort , delight that he was her master still and she his only love .He stroked that long cool hairwhich broke in waves to her hips ,kissed tears from her eyes ;and she , without one care ,gave him her cheeks and her lipsfreely - her breasts - her thighs- the everything of herself gave as a gift- the perfect present to seal their love .And that strange venomous thingperched on the Tree of Lifelooked down on the pair , and , though aware of the poison in his stingshortly to usher forth all hate - all strife emptiness and despair ,viewed with reluctance his predestined part :the fruit - the guilt - and then the banishing sword ."
3129,6,"2018-02-27 20:10:45","Autumn Poems",3129,"2018-02-27 22:47:51","Smell of Autumn","Raymond A. Foss","Another smell of autumnsweet sweet smellof Concord grapeswarming ripeningready to burst with flavorstrong urgent smelllured me closerspreading outwardfrom the makeshift arbora plume twenty feet wideenticing, coaxingme to lingerluxuriate in its aromasmile at the memoryof other pickingslong agoSweet fruithigh above me,out of reachup in the canopyformed by wire and bushSeptember 14, 2006 10:14"
134,7,"2018-02-27 20:10:49","Baby Poems",134,"2018-02-27 21:10:03","The Burglar Of Babylon","Elizabeth Bishop","On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again.On the hills a million people, A million sparrows, nest,Like a confused migration That's had to light and rest,Building its nests, or houses, Out of nothing at all, or air.You'd think a breath would end them, They perch so lightly there.But they cling and spread like lichen, And people come and come.There's one hill called the Chicken, And one called Catacomb;There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon.Micuçú was a burglar and killer, An enemy of society.He had escaped three times From the worst penitentiary.They don't know how many he murdered (Though they say he never raped),And he wounded two policemen This last time he escaped.They said, ""He'll go to his auntie, Who raised him like a son.She has a little drink shop On the hill of Babylon.""He did go straight to his auntie, And he drank a final beer.He told her, ""The soldiers are coming, And I've got to disappear.""""Ninety years they gave me. Who wants to live that long?I'll settle for ninety hours, On the hill of Babylon.""Don't tell anyone you saw me. I'll run as long as I can.You were good to me, and I love you, But I'm a doomed man.""Going out, he met a mulata Carrying water on her head.""If you say you saw me, daughter, You're as good as dead.""There are caves up there, and hideouts, And an old fort, falling down.They used to watch for Frenchmen From the hill of Babylon.Below him was the ocean. It reached far up the sky,Flat as a wall, and on it Were freighters passing by,Or climbing the wall, and climbing Till each looked like a fly,And then fell over and vanished; And he knew he was going to die.He could hear the goats baa-baa-ing. He could hear the babies cry;Fluttering kites strained upward; And he knew he was going to die.A buzzard flapped so near him He could see its naked neck.He waved his arms and shouted, ""Not yet, my son, not yet!""An Army helicopter Came nosing around and in.He could see two men inside it, but they never spotted him.The soldiers were all over, On all sides of the hill,And right against the skyline A row of them, small and still.Children peeked out of windows, And men in the drink shop swore,And spat a little cachaça At the light cracks in the floor.But the soldiers were nervous, even with tommy guns in hand,And one of them, in a panic, Shot the officer in command.He hit him in three places; The other shots went wild.The soldier had hysterics And sobbed like a little child.The dying man said, ""Finish The job we came here for.""he committed his soul to God And his sons to the Governor.They ran and got a priest, And he died in hope of Heaven--A man from Pernambuco, The youngest of eleven.They wanted to stop the search, but the Army said, ""No, go on,""So the soldiers swarmed again Up the hill of Babylon.Rich people in apartments Watched through binocularsAs long as the daylight lasted. And all night, under the stars,Micuçú hid in the grasses Or sat in a little tree,Listening for sounds, and staring At the lighthouse out at sea.And the lighthouse stared back at him, til finally it was dawn.He was soaked with dew, and hungry, On the hill of Babylon.The yellow sun was ugly, Like a raw egg on a plate--Slick from the sea. He cursed it, For he knew it sealed his fate.He saw the long white beaches And people going to swim,With towels and beach umbrellas, But the soldiers were after him.Far, far below, the people Were little colored spots,And the heads of those in swimming Were floating coconuts.He heard the peanut vendor Go peep-peep on his whistle,And the man that sells umbrellas Swinging his watchman's rattle.Women with market baskets Stood on the corners and talked,Then went on their way to market, Gazing up as they walked.The rich with their binoculars Were back again, and manyWere standing on the rooftops, Among TV antennae.It was early, eight or eight-thirty. He saw a soldier climb,Looking right at him. He fired, And missed for the last time.He could hear the soldier panting, Though he never got very near.Micuçú dashed for shelter. But he got it, behind the ear.He heard the babies crying Far, far away in his head,And the mongrels barking and barking. Then Micuçú was dead.He had a Taurus revolver, And just the clothes he had on,With two contos in the pockets, On the hill of Babylon.The police and the populace Heaved a sigh of relief,But behind the counter his auntie Wiped her eyes in grief.""We have always been respected. My shop is honest and clean.I loved him, but from a baby Micuçú was mean.""We have always been respected. His sister has a job.Both of us gave him money. Why did he have to rob?""I raised him to be honest, Even here, in Babylon slum.""The customers had another, Looking serious and glum.But one of them said to another, When he got outside the door,""He wasn't much of a burglar, He got caught six times--or more.""This morning the little soldiers are on Babylon hill again;Their gun barrels and helmets Shine in a gentle rain.Micuçú is buried already. They're after another two,But they say they aren't as dangerous As the poor Micuçú.On the green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again.There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of the Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon."
135,7,"2018-02-27 20:10:49","Baby Poems",135,"2018-02-27 21:10:06","Baby Face","Carl Sandburg","WHITE MOON comes in on a baby face.The shafts across her bed are flimmering. Out on the land White Moon shines,Shines and glimmers against gnarled shadows,All silver to slow twisted shadowsFalling across the long road that runs from the house. Keep a little of your beautyAnd some of your flimmering silverFor her by the window to-nightWhere you come in, White Moon."