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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Muy Vieja Mexicana, by Alice Corbin
I've seen her pass with eyes upon the road --
An old bent woman in a bronze-black shawl,
With skin as dried and wrinkled as a mummy's,
As brown as a cigar-box, and her voice
Like the low vibrant strings of a guitar.
Sorrowful Slumber, by Melyssa A. Harmon
Full moon bright shines down to light
My tired shoulders, another night
Of endless toss and constant turn
In dreams my sorrowful heart does burn.
Need, like fury, deep it creeps
Only of thee and me, by Louis Untermeyere
Only of thee and me the night wind sings,
Only of us the sailors speak at sea,
The earth is filled with wondered whisperings
Only of thee and me.
Only of thee and me the breakers chant,
A Night in Italy, by Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton
SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips
That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more:
Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,
Altho' they leave us on a lonely shore:
Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dips
Reeds of Innocence, by William Blake
PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'
Ode, by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Description of Spring, Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover, by Henry Howard Earl of Surrey
THE soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:
Aspatia's Song, by John Fletcher
LAY a garland on my herse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
Screw-Guns, by Rudyard Kipling
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule,
With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets
It's only the pick of the Army
that handles the dear little pets -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
Chloe Divine, by Thomas D'Urfey
CHLOE 's a Nymph in flowery groves,
A Nereid in the streams;
Saint-like she in the temple moves,
A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes,
To the Cuckoo, by John Logan
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Only Blue Escapes, by Andrew Patrick Cummins
only blue escapes these seamless corners;
nothing else, I don't know why
the folded sky spills from itself,
intense and past due dry
there's contradiction yet there's comfort,
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