Opening Up by Peter Davison
![Peter Davison](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_01619ce24bf23243218c38ca7bb8c171.jpg)
Weekend: a country custom, a century old,
English in origin, secular, elite,
depended on railway schedules for its ritual:
breakfast in silver warmers, tweeds till tea,
tennis or crocquet when there was no hunting,
dress for dinner, billiards after port,
later, adultery in upstairs bedrooms.
Now as the car turns willingly off asphalt
Read Poem English in origin, secular, elite,
depended on railway schedules for its ritual:
breakfast in silver warmers, tweeds till tea,
tennis or crocquet when there was no hunting,
dress for dinner, billiards after port,
later, adultery in upstairs bedrooms.
Now as the car turns willingly off asphalt
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Peaches by Peter Davison
![Peter Davison](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_01619ce24bf23243218c38ca7bb8c171.jpg)
A mouthful of language to swallow:
stretches of beach, sweet clinches,
breaches in walls, pleached branches;
britches hauled over haunches;
bunched leeches, wrenched teachers.
What English can do: ransack
the warmth that chuckles beneath
fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet
Read Poem stretches of beach, sweet clinches,
breaches in walls, pleached branches;
britches hauled over haunches;
bunched leeches, wrenched teachers.
What English can do: ransack
the warmth that chuckles beneath
fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet
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Of the Death of Sir T. W. The Elder by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
![Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_k6wm7DKD4sb6YEmihiR4awde70D3nvXtrDct8OzC.jpeg)
Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stithy where that some work of fame
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Jerusalem Sonnets (11) by James K. Baxter
![James K. Baxter](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xgQhA7remSEacpgUYiKOiksFBnbhCqb9GB1f9qQ4.jpeg)
One writes telling me I am her guiding light
And my poems her bible — on this cold morning
After moss I smoke one cigarette
And hear a magpie chatter in the paddock,
The image of Hatana — he bashes at the windows
In idiot spite, shouting — ‘Pakeha! You can be
‘The country’s leading poet’ — at the church I murmured, ‘Tena koe,'
To the oldest woman and she replied, ‘Tena koe’—
Read Poem And my poems her bible — on this cold morning
After moss I smoke one cigarette
And hear a magpie chatter in the paddock,
The image of Hatana — he bashes at the windows
In idiot spite, shouting — ‘Pakeha! You can be
‘The country’s leading poet’ — at the church I murmured, ‘Tena koe,'
To the oldest woman and she replied, ‘Tena koe’—
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In 1929 by Stephen Spender
![Stephen Spender](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BlZZjMMF83cueDzDl7V81FX5OrbLLm953ADhLMkG.jpeg)
I
A whim of Time, the general arbiter,
Proclaims the love, instead of death, of friends.
Under the domed sky and athletic sun
Three stand naked: the new, bronzed German
The communist clerk, and myself, being English.
Yet to unwind the travelled sphere twelve years
Then two take arms, spring to a soldier's posture:
Read Poem A whim of Time, the general arbiter,
Proclaims the love, instead of death, of friends.
Under the domed sky and athletic sun
Three stand naked: the new, bronzed German
The communist clerk, and myself, being English.
Yet to unwind the travelled sphere twelve years
Then two take arms, spring to a soldier's posture:
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Incidents of Travel in Poetry by Frank Lima
![Frank Lima](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_9WkH6qBzygDAGBcdsRnycWO0eczgKs5a1IQIuLKk.jpeg)
Happy Birthday Kenneth Koch/Feb 27 We went to all those places where they restore sadness and joy
and call it art. We were piloted by Auden who became
Unbearably acrimonious when we dropped off Senghor into the
steamy skies of his beloved West Africa. The termites and ants
Read Poem and call it art. We were piloted by Auden who became
Unbearably acrimonious when we dropped off Senghor into the
steamy skies of his beloved West Africa. The termites and ants
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The Battle of Blenheim by Robert Southey
![Robert Southey](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_AnY1VS5bg78h7nJvtRhY6iONCsPyATiR311x4hpK.gif)
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
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Arrival at Santos by Elizabeth Bishop
![Elizabeth Bishop](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YwG70kIi6MHq1aZNJf4Yr3SfSfJ7frigsEVBV5QS.jpeg)
Here is a coast; here is a harbor;
here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery;
impractically shaped and—who knows?—self-pitying mountains,
sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery,
with a little church on top of one. And warehouses,
some of them painted a feeble pink, or blue,
and some tall, uncertain palms. Oh, tourist,
is this how this country is going to answer you
Read Poem here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery;
impractically shaped and—who knows?—self-pitying mountains,
sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery,
with a little church on top of one. And warehouses,
some of them painted a feeble pink, or blue,
and some tall, uncertain palms. Oh, tourist,
is this how this country is going to answer you
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S. I. W. by Wilfred Owen
![Wilfred Owen](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_hIgG6IvW9qml9plkzSu7RiodmInLsXL9zo5Z6CXH.jpeg)
I will to the King,
And offer him consolation in his trouble,
For that man there has set his teeth to die,
And being one that hates obedience,
Discipline, and orderliness of life,
I cannot mourn him.
W.B. YEATS
I. THE PROLOGUE
Patting good-bye, doubtless they told the lad
Read Poem And offer him consolation in his trouble,
For that man there has set his teeth to die,
And being one that hates obedience,
Discipline, and orderliness of life,
I cannot mourn him.
W.B. YEATS
I. THE PROLOGUE
Patting good-bye, doubtless they told the lad
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Ypres by Laurence Binyon
![Laurence Binyon](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_fkBwBKpLO39DLa8Hbu4piTA4loyS0uXD41peAbgw.jpeg)
She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came
Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame
Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss
Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known
To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave
Sleep round her. Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide
Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
Read Poem Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came
Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame
Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss
Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known
To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave
Sleep round her. Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide
Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
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To the Prussians of England by Ivor Gurney
![Ivor Gurney](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_8r6veC4YSvoKkgOmsJ4yJTzf9smZFc2gVvmlwQsE.jpeg)
When I remember plain heroic strength
And shining virtue shown by Ypres pools,
Then read the blither written by knaves for fools
In praise of English soldiers lying at length,
Who purely dream what England shall be made
Gloriously new, free of the old stains
By us, who pay the price that must be paid,
Will freeze all winter over Ypres plains.
Our silly dreams of peace you put aside
And brotherhood of man, for you will see
An armed mistress, braggart of the tide,
Her children slaves, under your mastery.
We'll have a word there too, and forge a knife,
Will cut the cancer threatens England's life.
Read Poem And shining virtue shown by Ypres pools,
Then read the blither written by knaves for fools
In praise of English soldiers lying at length,
Who purely dream what England shall be made
Gloriously new, free of the old stains
By us, who pay the price that must be paid,
Will freeze all winter over Ypres plains.
Our silly dreams of peace you put aside
And brotherhood of man, for you will see
An armed mistress, braggart of the tide,
Her children slaves, under your mastery.
We'll have a word there too, and forge a knife,
Will cut the cancer threatens England's life.
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The Combe by Edward Thomas
![Edward Thomas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rWaJjxq46Z7DXOmN6nYTVRdqSvDne350lrRSwRG0.jpeg)
The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
Read Poem Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
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Holland’s Nadir by Les Murray
![Les Murray](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_GkkGDwkjYpmRVxY3RVLokqMwPZ9oWufJ1kkQImZ1.jpeg)
Men around a submarine
moored in Sydney Harbour
close to the end of wartime
showed us below, down into
their oily, mesh-lit gangway
of bunks atop machines.
In from the country, we
weren’t to know our shillings
bought them cigars and thread
for what remained of Holland’s Glory:
uniforms, odd, rescued aircraft,
and a clutch of undersea boats
Read Poem moored in Sydney Harbour
close to the end of wartime
showed us below, down into
their oily, mesh-lit gangway
of bunks atop machines.
In from the country, we
weren’t to know our shillings
bought them cigars and thread
for what remained of Holland’s Glory:
uniforms, odd, rescued aircraft,
and a clutch of undersea boats
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Idea: To the Reader of these Sonnets by Michael Drayton
![Michael Drayton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_u7i7o7uqaMNdXZUkviSt823tJ0ZCcMs2M9ueFSYu.jpeg)
Into these loves, who but for passion looks,
At this first sight here let him lay them by
And seek elsewhere in turning other books,
Which better may his labour satisfy.
No far-fetch'd sigh shall ever wound my breast;
Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring;
Nor in "Ah me's!" my whining sonnets drest:
A libertine, fantasticly I sing.
My verse is the true image of my mind,
Ever in motion, still desiring change;
And as thus to variety inclin'd,
So in all humours sportively I range:
My Muse is rightly of the English strain,
That cannot long one fashion entertain.
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Speech: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more” by William Shakespeare
![William Shakespeare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LIshk0OYoGQiQRlFsX56zUPHjrJnY4whjKyDurmB.jpeg)
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry) Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
Read Poem Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
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Elegy: In Coherent Light by Anne Stevenson
![Anne Stevenson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tmMDOL1JP4cEc3r5UXE0xCmaToKiLIYzna1AC3Qt.jpeg)
In memory of two English poets, Matt Simpson and Michael Murphy, d. 2009 Teach-cheap, teach-cheap, teach-cheap, teach-cheap—
Sparrows are plying their chisels in the summer ivy,
Read Poem Sparrows are plying their chisels in the summer ivy,
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A Declaration, Not of Independence by Ralph Salisbury
![Ralph Salisbury](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_KzH0ehIvZ3gkK7RCnfZMJuqimpl72bos9xnRRAq1.jpeg)
for my mother and father Apparently I’m Mom’s immaculately-conceived
Irish-American son, because,
Read Poem Irish-American son, because,
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Expression by George Arnold
![George Arnold](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
A hackneyed burden, to a hackneyed air,—
“I love thee only,—thou art wondrous fair!”
Alas! the poets have worn the theme threadbare!
Can I not find some words less tame and old,
To paint thy form and face of perfect mould,
Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold?
Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain
The love I lavish and receive again,—
The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain?
Can I not, by some metaphor divine,
Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine
In being thine, and knowing thou art mine?
Read Poem “I love thee only,—thou art wondrous fair!”
Alas! the poets have worn the theme threadbare!
Can I not find some words less tame and old,
To paint thy form and face of perfect mould,
Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold?
Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain
The love I lavish and receive again,—
The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain?
Can I not, by some metaphor divine,
Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine
In being thine, and knowing thou art mine?
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Day and Night in Virginia and Boston by Anne Winters
![Anne Winters](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
After three months, Virginia is still a frontier.
Late at night, I close the door
on my husband practicing Mozart, the dishpan fills
and the network affiliates sign off one by one.
Now the country stations, tuning up like crickets
on radios in scattered valley kitchens:
Har yall this evenin folks!
(Wanting to say ‘I’m real fine’ I whisper ‘Wow.’)
Read Poem Late at night, I close the door
on my husband practicing Mozart, the dishpan fills
and the network affiliates sign off one by one.
Now the country stations, tuning up like crickets
on radios in scattered valley kitchens:
Har yall this evenin folks!
(Wanting to say ‘I’m real fine’ I whisper ‘Wow.’)
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Choosing A Profession by Mary Lamb
![Mary Lamb](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_RShAPxkWEZsQqrLxQLPRapmgpiqw9A8W7b1A8fgM.jpeg)
A Creole boy from the West Indies brought,
To be in European learning taught,
Some years before to Westminster he went,
To a Preparatory school was sent.
When from his artless tale the mistress found
The child had not one friend on English ground,
She ev’n as if she his own mother were,
Made the dark Indian her particular care.
Read Poem To be in European learning taught,
Some years before to Westminster he went,
To a Preparatory school was sent.
When from his artless tale the mistress found
The child had not one friend on English ground,
She ev’n as if she his own mother were,
Made the dark Indian her particular care.
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Sonnet to Vauxhall by Thomas Hood
![Thomas Hood](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yTARIDJdUB2BR62S2Jn8ISmiNK0EpoODk0mnk3Ul.jpeg)
“The English Garden.”—Mason The cold transparent ham is on my fork—
It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle—
Read Poem It hardly rains—and hark the bell!—ding-dingle—
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On the Meeting of Garcia Lorca and Hart Crane by Philip Levine
![Philip Levine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rIKNQLSz2ELbPKtkYPCH8FelonWo4QanmDEfaEYA.jpeg)
Brooklyn, 1929. Of course Crane’s
been drinking and has no idea who
this curious Andalusian is, unable
even to speak the language of poetry.
The young man who brought them
together knows both Spanish and English,
but he has a headache from jumping
back and forth from one language
Read Poem been drinking and has no idea who
this curious Andalusian is, unable
even to speak the language of poetry.
The young man who brought them
together knows both Spanish and English,
but he has a headache from jumping
back and forth from one language
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Song of Myself: 35 by Walt Whitman
![Walt Whitman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_2yX7sNb9808cXF7Lp8z5McdI5cLMoR4h7rkC2wEn.jpeg)
Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?
Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother’s father the sailor told it to me.
Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;
Along the lower’d eve he came horribly raking us.
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch’d,
My captain lash’d fast with his own hands.
Read Poem Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?
List to the yarn, as my grandmother’s father the sailor told it to me.
Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)
His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;
Along the lower’d eve he came horribly raking us.
We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch’d,
My captain lash’d fast with his own hands.
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Bilingual/Bilingüe by Rhina P. Espaillat
![Rhina P. Espaillat](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_MnADVexU45IDEHx2zuhAlkpZVQJ8hqZx9JuhZS5y.jpeg)
My father liked them separate, one there,
one here (allá y aquí), as if aware
that words might cut in two his daughter’s heart
(el corazón) and lock the alien part
to what he was—his memory, his name
(su nombre)—with a key he could not claim.
“English outside this door, Spanish inside,”
he said, “y basta.” But who can divide
Read Poem one here (allá y aquí), as if aware
that words might cut in two his daughter’s heart
(el corazón) and lock the alien part
to what he was—his memory, his name
(su nombre)—with a key he could not claim.
“English outside this door, Spanish inside,”
he said, “y basta.” But who can divide
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Break of Day in the Trenches by Isaac Rosenberg
![Isaac Rosenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ADDffcTLpP73MILQOOc9iqAzZYQWzcxnmpSzJlPA.jpeg)
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Read Poem It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
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The Day of Judgment by Isaac Watts
![Isaac Watts](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ScVUun7AWGXEkPqaxIK9hl2YPya8mslls8GT6CvS.jpeg)
An Ode Attempted in English Sapphic When the fierce north wind with his airy forces
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury,
And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes
Rushing amain down,
Read Poem Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury,
And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes
Rushing amain down,
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Descriptive Jottings of London by Knight of the White Elephant of Burmah William McGonagall
![Knight of the White Elephant of Burmah William McGonagall](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_EjyYY4YopZAkNQMdlC2W6AsygLUnnwaYNC6e7Dso.jpeg)
As I stood upon London Bridge and viewed the mighty throng
Of thousands of people in cabs and ’busses rapidly whirling along,
All furiously driving to and fro,
Up one street and down another as quick as they could go:
Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there,
Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air:
And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight,
To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night.
And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold,
And the crown of England lies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold;
King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo’ster,
And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor.
Read Poem Of thousands of people in cabs and ’busses rapidly whirling along,
All furiously driving to and fro,
Up one street and down another as quick as they could go:
Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there,
Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air:
And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight,
To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night.
And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold,
And the crown of England lies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold;
King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo’ster,
And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor.
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Five Visions of Captain Cook by Kenneth Slessor
![Kenneth Slessor](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
I
Cook was a captain of the Admiralty
When sea-captains had the evil eye,
Or should have, what with beating krakens off
And casting nativities of ships;
Cook was a captain of the powder-days
When captains, you might have said, if you had been
Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side,
Read Poem Cook was a captain of the Admiralty
When sea-captains had the evil eye,
Or should have, what with beating krakens off
And casting nativities of ships;
Cook was a captain of the powder-days
When captains, you might have said, if you had been
Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side,
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The Girl with Bees in Her Hair by Eleanor Wilner
![Eleanor Wilner](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lwjPIRmip73hpeBUOcbcegy89QCcAPqTF1o5dMtK.jpeg)
came in an envelope with no return address;
she was small, wore wrinkled dress of figured
cotton, full from neck to ankles, with a button
of bone at the throat, a collar of torn lace.
She was standing before a monumental house—
on the scale you see in certain English films:
urns, curved drives, stone lions, and an entrance far
too vast for any home. She was not of that place,
Read Poem she was small, wore wrinkled dress of figured
cotton, full from neck to ankles, with a button
of bone at the throat, a collar of torn lace.
She was standing before a monumental house—
on the scale you see in certain English films:
urns, curved drives, stone lions, and an entrance far
too vast for any home. She was not of that place,
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I Knew a Woman by Theodore Roethke
![Theodore Roethke](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_cfq6o4cYvPtRUEUCKZhlkjyKZZNYFXWQSruUhEpB.jpeg)
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
Read Poem When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
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Interview by a Guggenheim Recipient by Charles Bukowski
![Charles Bukowski](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_qJmw9WnRMUI8tHJP91dutf2jsF6nOx6PtQ1gHpId.jpeg)
this South American up here on a Gugg
walked in with his whore
and she sat on the edge of my bed and
crossed her fine legs
and I kept looking at her legs
and he pulled at his stringy necktie
and I had a hangover
and he asked me
Read Poem walked in with his whore
and she sat on the edge of my bed and
crossed her fine legs
and I kept looking at her legs
and he pulled at his stringy necktie
and I had a hangover
and he asked me
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Katie by Henry Timrod
![Henry Timrod](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_aSGVUCHCo3MOL2HR7q43dyIkCTkyOfnY4t8hcvQY.jpeg)
It may be through some foreign grace,
And unfamiliar charm of face;
It may be that across the foam
Which bore her from her childhood’s home,
By some strange spell, my Katie brought,
Along with English creeds and thought—
Entangled in her golden hair—
Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!
Read Poem And unfamiliar charm of face;
It may be that across the foam
Which bore her from her childhood’s home,
By some strange spell, my Katie brought,
Along with English creeds and thought—
Entangled in her golden hair—
Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!
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The Love Letters of Helen Pitts Douglass by Michael S. Harper
![Michael S. Harper](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BKHLU4udG9PvowNPXPrDCiyhzxQeUPYi1ER5qunx.jpeg)
When I stood behind his desk chair
and when he sat, on rare occasions,
on the porch, “sage of Anacostia,”
they called him, I smelled his mane
glorious, and as a hand saddle
the aroma of hair took me to neckline
and below. In Egypt, long after
Napoleon had shot off the face
Read Poem and when he sat, on rare occasions,
on the porch, “sage of Anacostia,”
they called him, I smelled his mane
glorious, and as a hand saddle
the aroma of hair took me to neckline
and below. In Egypt, long after
Napoleon had shot off the face
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The Rolling English Road by G. K. Chesterton
![G. K. Chesterton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_GdZSGfxpfxSWyfRwIGDXXlVJQq3HjaOBl00Eij3t.jpeg)
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
Read Poem The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
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Salter's Gate by Anne Stevenson
![Anne Stevenson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tmMDOL1JP4cEc3r5UXE0xCmaToKiLIYzna1AC3Qt.jpeg)
There, in that lost
corner of the ordnance survey.
Drive through the vanity —
two pubs and a garage — of Satley,
then right, cross the A68
past down-at-heel farms and a quarry,
you can't miss it, a 'T' instead of a 'plus'
where the road meets a wall.
Read Poem corner of the ordnance survey.
Drive through the vanity —
two pubs and a garage — of Satley,
then right, cross the A68
past down-at-heel farms and a quarry,
you can't miss it, a 'T' instead of a 'plus'
where the road meets a wall.
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Santa Fe Trail by Barbara Guest
![Barbara Guest](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_FpbkyX3iqfYGftiAekdCa4X0IzVNWoG8NhdNm1p6.jpeg)
I go separately
The sweet knees of oxen have pressed a path for me
ghosts with ingots have burned their bare hands
it is the dungaree darkness with China stitched
where the westerly winds
and the traveler’s checks
the evensong of salesmen
the glistening paraphernalia of twin suitcases
Read Poem The sweet knees of oxen have pressed a path for me
ghosts with ingots have burned their bare hands
it is the dungaree darkness with China stitched
where the westerly winds
and the traveler’s checks
the evensong of salesmen
the glistening paraphernalia of twin suitcases
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The Soldier by Rupert Brooke
![Rupert Brooke](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_6NoFKIJAFxTTCmg1AiVFjX9FBOx0v0zx3mNsKeuh.jpeg)
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
Read Poem That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
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The Song of the Bow by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
![Sir Arthur Conan Doyle](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_G0BDDZaF3zcNcDOiDMGZBQjzoW38Ug0dquP6RGIs.jpeg)
What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
And so we will sing
Of the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.
Read Poem The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
And so we will sing
Of the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.
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Sonnet 13: Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song by John Milton
![John Milton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_XydgYSozhAHxi8BAFqxni5JfX8MD7WmUZOB4n2ug.jpeg)
To Mr. H. Lawes, On His Airs Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas’ ears, committing short and long,
Read Poem First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas’ ears, committing short and long,
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Temporarily in Oxford by Anne Stevenson
![Anne Stevenson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tmMDOL1JP4cEc3r5UXE0xCmaToKiLIYzna1AC3Qt.jpeg)
Where they will bury me
I don't know.
Many places might not be
sorry to store me.
The Midwest has right of origin.
Already it has welcomed my mother
to its flat sheets.
The English fens that bore me
Read Poem I don't know.
Many places might not be
sorry to store me.
The Midwest has right of origin.
Already it has welcomed my mother
to its flat sheets.
The English fens that bore me
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from The True Born Englishman by Daniel Defoe
![Daniel Defoe](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_kF3DNH8DIL2rWy38hdp6Pq5NsqvhKNaMETHNCguw.jpeg)
Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That het’rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend’ring off-spring quickly learn’d to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
Read Poem That het’rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend’ring off-spring quickly learn’d to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
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Wild Oats by Philip Larkin
![Philip Larkin](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_B653uFfDuwSs29QvycZUDxouGbHZgHx95q2VCEKJ.jpeg)
About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked
The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt
If ever one had like hers:
But it was the friend I took out,
Read Poem Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked
The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt
If ever one had like hers:
But it was the friend I took out,
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Wyatt Resteth Here by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
![Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_k6wm7DKD4sb6YEmihiR4awde70D3nvXtrDct8OzC.jpeg)
Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he of envy could obtain.
A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stith, where some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain.
Read Poem Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he of envy could obtain.
A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stith, where some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain’s gain.
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All My Pretty Ones by Anne Sexton
![Anne Sexton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0YhDfBhyiQZigUBOY8pb2UThySDDrBmSWzoezSm9.jpeg)
Father, this year’s jinx rides us apart
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,
twenty suits from Dunne’s, an English Ford,
the love and legal verbiage of another will,
Read Poem where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,
leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber
you from the residence you could not afford:
a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,
twenty suits from Dunne’s, an English Ford,
the love and legal verbiage of another will,
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Astrophil and Stella 41: Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance by Sir Philip Sidney
![Sir Philip Sidney](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rvqHZiYGbfxh5QX1LIPGofXsMb845SyzIwoqoivR.jpeg)
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
Read Poem Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
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Bermudas by Andrew Marvell
![Andrew Marvell](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YLotdEE1V7cQuXKCt8wDiy1N4A7TF8rJHiRqJgGk.jpeg)
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In th’ ocean’s bosom unespy’d,
From a small boat, that row’d along,
The list’ning winds receiv’d this song.
What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the wat’ry maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
Read Poem In th’ ocean’s bosom unespy’d,
From a small boat, that row’d along,
The list’ning winds receiv’d this song.
What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the wat’ry maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
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The Character of Holland by Andrew Marvell
![Andrew Marvell](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YLotdEE1V7cQuXKCt8wDiy1N4A7TF8rJHiRqJgGk.jpeg)
(excerpt) Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land,
As but th’ off-scouring of the British sand;
And so much earth as was contributed
By English pilots when they heav’d the lead;
Read Poem As but th’ off-scouring of the British sand;
And so much earth as was contributed
By English pilots when they heav’d the lead;
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Constancy to an Ideal Object by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
![Samuel Taylor Coleridge](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_6fxj9dT3ypZ6Sizz74OJ4gPD38UfJCbfZr4GYbDs.jpeg)
Since all that beat about in Nature's range,
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day—
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou are she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,
Some living Love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
Read Poem Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day—
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou are she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,
Some living Love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
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The Copper Beech by Daryl Hine
![Daryl Hine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Zgygt0JtXHM9QuaqdY8l9XHFnsrk775xEjZk4z7I.jpeg)
It is half past ten in Stonington.
The trees droop apprehensive of the heat
And the sky has turned that pale suspicious colour
That means that it cannot support more light.
Here on the terrace I and a companion
Each pretends to read. The papers say
That it is 90 in New York today.
Across the street work is going forward
Read Poem The trees droop apprehensive of the heat
And the sky has turned that pale suspicious colour
That means that it cannot support more light.
Here on the terrace I and a companion
Each pretends to read. The papers say
That it is 90 in New York today.
Across the street work is going forward
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Dora Williams by Edgar Lee Masters
![Edgar Lee Masters](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_oUx5deZBOXp6I8xLr4pnrFl5kvZUQ1wpLeJoYiR7.jpeg)
When Reuben Pantier ran away and threw me
I went to Springfield. There I met a lush,
Whose father just deceased left him a fortune.
He married me when drunk. My life was wretched.
A year passed and one day they found him dead.
That made me rich. I moved on to Chicago.
After a time met Tyler Rountree, villain.
I moved on to New York. A gray-haired magnate
Went mad about me i so another fortune.
He died one night right in my arms, you know.
(I saw his purple face for years thereafter.)
There was almost a scandal. I moved on,
This time to Paris. I was now a woman,
Insidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich.
My sweet apartment near the Champs Élysées
Read Poem I went to Springfield. There I met a lush,
Whose father just deceased left him a fortune.
He married me when drunk. My life was wretched.
A year passed and one day they found him dead.
That made me rich. I moved on to Chicago.
After a time met Tyler Rountree, villain.
I moved on to New York. A gray-haired magnate
Went mad about me i so another fortune.
He died one night right in my arms, you know.
(I saw his purple face for years thereafter.)
There was almost a scandal. I moved on,
This time to Paris. I was now a woman,
Insidious, subtle, versed in the world and rich.
My sweet apartment near the Champs Élysées
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For “Fiddle-de-de” by John Hollander
![John Hollander](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_bbHCXEjkwo436mSl0O8oLTlPyJHqmM3yNiazdUQK.jpeg)
“What’s the French for fiddle-de-dee?” “Fiddle-de-dee’s not English,” Alice replied gravely. “Whoever said it was,” said the Red queen ... What’s the French for “fiddle-de-dee”?
But “fiddle-de-dee’s not English” (we
Read Poem But “fiddle-de-dee’s not English” (we
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Homecoming by Jay Wright
![Jay Wright](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_G16Jxr0Q4HNbfSbszl6Ft5QIOct2qrpD32GUxURn.jpeg)
Guadalajara—New York, 1965 The trees are crystal chandeliers,
and deep in the hollow
Read Poem and deep in the hollow
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I Travelled among Unknown Men by William Wordsworth
![William Wordsworth](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_dc77Y4C4TW1uMEpA2Uy58EWxXIseXTLyLcouDoLJ.jpeg)
I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
Read Poem In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
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If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd by John Keats
![John Keats](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_2t7DQdJPYaaPthf2UGEp6bVKWLAfwAnNX56Uy3s2.jpeg)
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
Read Poem And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
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It was not Death, for I stood up, (355) by Emily Dickinson
![Emily Dickinson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BQ58LvgpSVrExo1RogJV8G3dwWKoeLQVEZfNfW8z.jpeg)
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Karenge ya Marenge by Countee Cullen
![Countee Cullen](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_6QmuOGEKl9LkJ3NNnvtAaMwm0FgIY55lGbzh6eRt.jpeg)
Wherein are words sublime or noble? What
Invests one speech with haloed eminence,
Makes it the sesame for all doors shut,
Yet in its like sees but impertinence?
Is it the hue? Is it the cast of eye,
The curve of lip or Asiatic breath,
Which mark a lesser place for Gandhi’s cry
Than “Give me liberty or give me death!”
Read Poem Invests one speech with haloed eminence,
Makes it the sesame for all doors shut,
Yet in its like sees but impertinence?
Is it the hue? Is it the cast of eye,
The curve of lip or Asiatic breath,
Which mark a lesser place for Gandhi’s cry
Than “Give me liberty or give me death!”
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Lines to a Don by Hilaire Belloc
![Hilaire Belloc](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_vN2RghRZqRXpwko3inuSjfLciwlJUPkDYlr3bBfU.jpeg)
Remote and ineffectual Don
That dared attack my Chesterton,
With that poor weapon, half-impelled,
Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,
Unworthy for a tilt with men—
Your quavering and corroded pen;
Don poor at Bed and worse at Table,
Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable;
Read Poem That dared attack my Chesterton,
With that poor weapon, half-impelled,
Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held,
Unworthy for a tilt with men—
Your quavering and corroded pen;
Don poor at Bed and worse at Table,
Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable;
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The Little Black Boy by William Blake
![William Blake](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_cDG3GFf8uWuzMRCkdejnlItPsB3plVLERjeuDKlg.jpeg)
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.
Read Poem And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say.
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London, 1802 by William Wordsworth
![William Wordsworth](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_dc77Y4C4TW1uMEpA2Uy58EWxXIseXTLyLcouDoLJ.jpeg)
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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The Old Meeting House by Alfred Noyes
![Alfred Noyes](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_bt2SRLmPtz9NZkakBdKnWo0JZGTOIcHmGB2heYgH.jpeg)
(new jersey, 1918) Its quiet graves were made for peace till Gabriel blows his horn.
Those wise old elms could hear no cry
Read Poem Those wise old elms could hear no cry
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Philomela by Matthew Arnold
![Matthew Arnold](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_x1xXlWy7GFrftloqvhT2oERhlwVNX9EcCMlyASoZ.jpeg)
Hark! ah, the nightingale—
The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!—what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
Read Poem The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!—what pain!
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain—
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
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Poem for Christian, My Student by Gail Mazur
![Gail Mazur](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_wlUxNFrZ5cE2TIKTkonCRYtOJl8rPFzqReKu5eOF.jpeg)
He reminds me of someone I used to know,
but who? Before class,
he comes to my office to shmooze,
a thousand thousand pointless interesting
speculations. Irrepressible boy,
his assignments are rarely completed,
or actually started. This week, instead
of research in the stacks, he’s performing
Read Poem but who? Before class,
he comes to my office to shmooze,
a thousand thousand pointless interesting
speculations. Irrepressible boy,
his assignments are rarely completed,
or actually started. This week, instead
of research in the stacks, he’s performing
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The Redeemer by Siegfried Sassoon
![Siegfried Sassoon](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lQ12XPYJjJjtYsPrU2TrC4aqEIVaYunEcvFK2IKu.jpeg)
Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep;
It was past twelve on a mid-winter night,
When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep;
There, with much work to do before the light,
We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might
Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang,
And droning shells burst with a hollow bang;
We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one;
Read Poem It was past twelve on a mid-winter night,
When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep;
There, with much work to do before the light,
We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might
Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang,
And droning shells burst with a hollow bang;
We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one;
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A Shropshire Lad 31: On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble by A. E. Housman
![A. E. Housman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_40sbV0QwcyCeV4V3nmphLVUeaGhWxF3RYvmX1R5J.jpeg)
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
Read Poem His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
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Theme for English B by Langston Hughes
![Langston Hughes](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_6dbu3UUe1wJunuRqdGZfh6DrH7o2l5D0tmRQlMsh.jpeg)
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
Read Poem Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
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A Thousand Words by Daryl Hine
![Daryl Hine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Zgygt0JtXHM9QuaqdY8l9XHFnsrk775xEjZk4z7I.jpeg)
Ce qui est beau à Leningrad, c’est Saint Petersbourg.
What fellow traveller returned from the U.S.S.R.,
Burdened with souvenirs in the form of second thoughts, said
That, rephrasing the Slavic platitude as a reactionary epigram? Thence
One must count oneself privileged to have escaped empty-handed,
Frisked in exit by the incompetent customs of the country
Who got everything backwards, inspecting my papers with a glass:
Bourgeois formalism apart, my handwriting looks like a decadent cipher.
Read Poem What fellow traveller returned from the U.S.S.R.,
Burdened with souvenirs in the form of second thoughts, said
That, rephrasing the Slavic platitude as a reactionary epigram? Thence
One must count oneself privileged to have escaped empty-handed,
Frisked in exit by the incompetent customs of the country
Who got everything backwards, inspecting my papers with a glass:
Bourgeois formalism apart, my handwriting looks like a decadent cipher.
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To a Highland Girl by William Wordsworth
![William Wordsworth](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_dc77Y4C4TW1uMEpA2Uy58EWxXIseXTLyLcouDoLJ.jpeg)
(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Read Poem Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
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To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet
![Anne Bradstreet](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ntyKN3DyCjlacVaJjnwt2jUjXNVdwCCkrgDPS4H3.jpeg)
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University by Karl Shapiro
![Karl Shapiro](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_IA2UKP4YHA0OviFjowYTEORNqZjO3b5RrqdqjdnS.jpeg)
To hurt the Negro and avoid the Jew
Is the curriculum. In mid-September
The entering boys, identified by hats,
Wander in a maze of mannered brick
Where boxwood and magnolia brood
And columns with imperious stance
Like rows of ante-bellum girls
Eye them, outlanders.
Read Poem Is the curriculum. In mid-September
The entering boys, identified by hats,
Wander in a maze of mannered brick
Where boxwood and magnolia brood
And columns with imperious stance
Like rows of ante-bellum girls
Eye them, outlanders.
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