I have never seen "Volcanoes" — (175) by Emily Dickinson
![Emily Dickinson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BQ58LvgpSVrExo1RogJV8G3dwWKoeLQVEZfNfW8z.jpeg)
I have never seen "Volcanoes" —
But, when Travellers tell
How those old — phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still —
Bear within — appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men —
Read Poem But, when Travellers tell
How those old — phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still —
Bear within — appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men —
0
Virgin by Kathleen Tankersley Young
![Kathleen Tankersley Young](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
For Lois You would feed your fierce desire
From my lips, with white fire.
Read Poem From my lips, with white fire.
0
from the First Villancico by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
![Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Written for the Nativity of Our Lord, Puebla, 1689. Since Love is shivering
in the ice and cold,
Read Poem in the ice and cold,
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The Great Fires by Jack Gilbert
![Jack Gilbert](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
Read Poem Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
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The Alchemist by Louise Bogan
![Louise Bogan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_3SstFNIdl8OwzmhfiRfnpvdD1BC1kBq21enokAVI.jpeg)
I burned my life, that I might find
A passion wholly of the mind,
Thought divorced from eye and bone,
Ecstasy come to breath alone.
I broke my life, to seek relief
From the flawed light of love and grief.
With mounting beat the utter fire
Charred existence and desire.
Read Poem A passion wholly of the mind,
Thought divorced from eye and bone,
Ecstasy come to breath alone.
I broke my life, to seek relief
From the flawed light of love and grief.
With mounting beat the utter fire
Charred existence and desire.
0
Nuances of a Theme by Williams by Wallace Stevens
![Wallace Stevens](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tu2O8WYSpbyhbVKKBpUeN1XXCx9mM84Am5LIatPu.jpeg)
It’s a strange courage
you give me, ancient star:
Shine alone in the sunrise
toward which you lend no part!
I
Shine alone, shine nakedly, shine like bronze,
that reflects neither my face nor any inner part
of my being, shine like fire, that mirrors nothing.
Read Poem you give me, ancient star:
Shine alone in the sunrise
toward which you lend no part!
I
Shine alone, shine nakedly, shine like bronze,
that reflects neither my face nor any inner part
of my being, shine like fire, that mirrors nothing.
0
Silence for My Father by Deena Metzger
![Deena Metzger](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0sC7fNbePFzjvXYx1OXQgHczeygZU7V6QfQVjvAK.jpeg)
This is the silence around the poem of the death of my father.
This is the silence before the poem.
While my father was dying, the Challenger was exploding on TV
Again and again. I watched it happen. In his hospital room,
I followed his breath. Then it stopped.
This is the silence in a poem about the dying of the father.
We’re burning the earth. We’re burning the sky.
Here is another silence in the middle of the poem about the immolation of the Fathers.
Read Poem This is the silence before the poem.
While my father was dying, the Challenger was exploding on TV
Again and again. I watched it happen. In his hospital room,
I followed his breath. Then it stopped.
This is the silence in a poem about the dying of the father.
We’re burning the earth. We’re burning the sky.
Here is another silence in the middle of the poem about the immolation of the Fathers.
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Potential Random XIV by Keith Waldrop
![Keith Waldrop](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_sFdi3oDbMsRJOqa8nJFQqei3rE45Uvuhs78VUBPo.jpeg)
An aging house, well yes he
understands that—but suddenly
down it falls.
And he is in a garden.
And there are animals.
And he is in a garden and
there are trees.
And there are stones on
Read Poem understands that—but suddenly
down it falls.
And he is in a garden.
And there are animals.
And he is in a garden and
there are trees.
And there are stones on
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The Ebb and Flow by Edward Taylor
![Edward Taylor](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
When first thou on me, Lord, wrought'st thy sweet print,
My heart was made thy tinder box.
My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t:
Where fell thy sparks by drops.
Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came
Did ever catch and often out would flame.
But now my heart is made thy censer trim,
Full of thy golden altar’s fire,
To offer up sweet incense in
Unto thyself entire:
I find my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel
That drop out from thy holy flint and steel.
Hence doubts out bud for fear thy fire in me
Read Poem My heart was made thy tinder box.
My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t:
Where fell thy sparks by drops.
Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came
Did ever catch and often out would flame.
But now my heart is made thy censer trim,
Full of thy golden altar’s fire,
To offer up sweet incense in
Unto thyself entire:
I find my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel
That drop out from thy holy flint and steel.
Hence doubts out bud for fear thy fire in me
0
Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats
![William Butler Yeats](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yq03twK9AL5dKsmtbueTuvlC3oG4VJxlE4YyMyqQ.jpeg)
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Read Poem That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
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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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Exodus by George Oppen
![George Oppen](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_o2i579M7aKQewcymr8FkmAuOVWU5F5WXw0O1mkZg.jpeg)
Miracle of the children the brilliant
Children the word
Liquid as woodlands Children?
When she was a child I read Exodus
To my daughter 'The children of Israel. . .'
Pillar of fire
Pillar of cloud
We stared at the end
Read Poem Children the word
Liquid as woodlands Children?
When she was a child I read Exodus
To my daughter 'The children of Israel. . .'
Pillar of fire
Pillar of cloud
We stared at the end
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August 1914 by Isaac Rosenberg
![Isaac Rosenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ADDffcTLpP73MILQOOc9iqAzZYQWzcxnmpSzJlPA.jpeg)
What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart's dear granary?
The much we shall miss?
Three lives hath one life—
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone—
Left is the hard and cold.
Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields,
A fair mouth's broken tooth.
Read Poem In the fire of this?
The heart's dear granary?
The much we shall miss?
Three lives hath one life—
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone—
Left is the hard and cold.
Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields,
A fair mouth's broken tooth.
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Men Who March Away by Thomas Hardy
![Thomas Hardy](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_QRuiFIGyhoAMjwzTJn79im7wRFJuoIJWWV6RNUqf.jpeg)
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
Leaving all that here can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye,
Who watch us stepping by
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Read Poem Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
Leaving all that here can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye,
Who watch us stepping by
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
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The Armadillo by Elizabeth Bishop
![Elizabeth Bishop](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YwG70kIi6MHq1aZNJf4Yr3SfSfJ7frigsEVBV5QS.jpeg)
for Robert Lowell This is the time of year
when almost every night
Read Poem when almost every night
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People Who Died by Ted Berrigan
![Ted Berrigan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Pat Dugan……..my grandfather……..throat cancer……..1947.
Ed Berrigan……..my dad……..heart attack……..1958.
Dickie Budlong……..my best friend Brucie’s big brother, when we were
five to eight……..killed in Korea, 1953.
Red O’Sullivan……..hockey star & cross-country runner
who sat at my lunch table
in High School……car crash…...1954.
Jimmy “Wah” Tiernan……..my friend, in High School,
Read Poem Ed Berrigan……..my dad……..heart attack……..1958.
Dickie Budlong……..my best friend Brucie’s big brother, when we were
five to eight……..killed in Korea, 1953.
Red O’Sullivan……..hockey star & cross-country runner
who sat at my lunch table
in High School……car crash…...1954.
Jimmy “Wah” Tiernan……..my friend, in High School,
0
The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats
![William Butler Yeats](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yq03twK9AL5dKsmtbueTuvlC3oG4VJxlE4YyMyqQ.jpeg)
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Read Poem Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
2
The Plate by Anthony Hecht
![Anthony Hecht](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_JYoEY5BxPQCbrkSYCqeq38beRfn6ozjn33NCVwEs.jpeg)
Now he has silver in him. When sometime
Death shall boil down unnecessary fat
To reach the nub of our identity,
When in the run of crime
The skull is rifled for the gold in teeth,
And chemistry has eaten from the spine
Superfluous life and vigor, why then he
Will show a richness to be wondered at,
And shall be thought a mine
Whose claim and stake are stone and floral wreath.
The body burns away, and burning gives
Light to the eye and moisture to the lip
And warmth to our desires, but it burns
Whatever body lives
Read Poem Death shall boil down unnecessary fat
To reach the nub of our identity,
When in the run of crime
The skull is rifled for the gold in teeth,
And chemistry has eaten from the spine
Superfluous life and vigor, why then he
Will show a richness to be wondered at,
And shall be thought a mine
Whose claim and stake are stone and floral wreath.
The body burns away, and burning gives
Light to the eye and moisture to the lip
And warmth to our desires, but it burns
Whatever body lives
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Book 2, Epigram 4: Ad Henricum Wottonum. by Thomas Bastard
![Thomas Bastard](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Wotton,the country and the country swain,
How can they yield a Poet any sense?
How can they stir him up, or heat his vein?
How can they feed him with intelligence?
You have that fire which can a wit enflame,
In happy London England’s fairest eye:
Well may you Poets’ have of worthy name,
Which have the food and life of Poetry.
And yet the country or the town may sway,
Or bear a part, as clowns do in a play.
Read Poem How can they yield a Poet any sense?
How can they stir him up, or heat his vein?
How can they feed him with intelligence?
You have that fire which can a wit enflame,
In happy London England’s fairest eye:
Well may you Poets’ have of worthy name,
Which have the food and life of Poetry.
And yet the country or the town may sway,
Or bear a part, as clowns do in a play.
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The Tunnel by Robert Creeley
![Robert Creeley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_AINQ7WRT3NZx6zyyWypCqUSifxHPBAm9wOM6lT2M.jpeg)
Tonight, nothing is long enough—
time isn’t.
Were there a fire,
it would burn now.
Were there a heaven,
I would have gone long ago.
I think that light
is the final image.
Read Poem time isn’t.
Were there a fire,
it would burn now.
Were there a heaven,
I would have gone long ago.
I think that light
is the final image.
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john by Lucille Clifton
![Lucille Clifton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_2c7llDT6nDFjTRihyDN6sdnMcOxmT4g1xqcZMAe9.jpeg)
somebody coming in blackness
like a star
and the world be a great bush
on his head
and his eyes be fire
in the city
and his mouth be true as time
he be calling the people brother
Read Poem like a star
and the world be a great bush
on his head
and his eyes be fire
in the city
and his mouth be true as time
he be calling the people brother
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Waterlily Fire by Muriel Rukeyser
![Muriel Rukeyser](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_P0XWwXzNBOFfQLNcEJjZoMLP2kpq6NjBiYPBUdIA.jpeg)
for Richard Griffith 1 THE BURNING
Girl grown woman fire mother of fire
Read Poem Girl grown woman fire mother of fire
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By Candlelight by Edith Sitwell
![Edith Sitwell](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LkSrq405WUAumjJ0kp9r8NPJ7TxQmOlTazTgdotx.jpeg)
Houses red as flower of bean,
Flickering leaves and shadows lean!
Pantalone, like a parrot,
Sat and grumbled in the garret—
Sat and growled and grumbled till
Moon upon the window-sill
Like a red geranium
Scented his bald cranium.
Said Brighella, meaning well:
“Pack your box and—go to Hell!
Heat will cure your rheumatism!” . . .
Silence crowned this optimism—
Not a sound and not a wail:
But the fire (lush leafy vales)
Watched the angry feathers fly.
Read Poem Flickering leaves and shadows lean!
Pantalone, like a parrot,
Sat and grumbled in the garret—
Sat and growled and grumbled till
Moon upon the window-sill
Like a red geranium
Scented his bald cranium.
Said Brighella, meaning well:
“Pack your box and—go to Hell!
Heat will cure your rheumatism!” . . .
Silence crowned this optimism—
Not a sound and not a wail:
But the fire (lush leafy vales)
Watched the angry feathers fly.
0
Banking Coal by Jean Toomer
![Jean Toomer](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_P2Wh1H1NCUSe0M2s83jeX5I8jk4Koz5V1hXn8hyf.jpeg)
Whoever it was who brought the first wood and coal
To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way,
Though all with shovels and with ashes,
Never resting till the fire seemed most dead;
Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps
Read Poem To start the Fire, did his part well;
Not all wood takes to fire from a match,
Nor coal from wood before it’s burned to charcoal.
The wood and coal in question caught a flame
And flared up beautifully, touching the air
That takes a flame from anything.
Somehow the fire was furnaced,
And then the time was ripe for some to say,
“Right banking of the furnace saves the coal.”
I’ve seen them set to work, each in his way,
Though all with shovels and with ashes,
Never resting till the fire seemed most dead;
Whereupon they’d crawl in hooded night-caps
0
Conversation 12: On Hieroglyphs by Rosmarie Waldrop
![Rosmarie Waldrop](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_SmvE6LSK83ee0Qe6EkFoPo62yfwZdURzYk5aqOsW.jpeg)
Champollion fainted, she says, once he had wrested their secret from the hieroglyphs and saw them turn transparent. The serpent no longer with power to strike, but biting its tail. I smell my salts, my packets of words, panicked. I’m no longer sure whether they shape my reality or have too little mass to interact with naked matter. Then they would pass right through the earth as I will in death.
The lightest particles gather the energy, he says, and given their density, outweigh stars. Thought follows thought, the interval calibrated on the space between your legs. Your yes fire, your no the crack of a whip. Well, more a filament breaking in a lightbulb. Eating from the Tree of Knowledge can’t be undone. Only muddied, as by motivation. And the way you thrust out your belly as you walk, with almost shameless indifference, makes a void in the air, but no case for cosmic deceleration.
So even if I despair of plane surfaces, she says, writing, even talking, becomes an act of faith that my bondage to grammar and lexicon is not in vain. That these symbols in their beautiful and hallucinatory nudity blind me only to make me see. There is fire under the smoke. The sun also rises and falls.
We still read at risk, he says, but we don’t need to lard the crocodile with arrows. The picture won’t devour us. It is swallowed in the fluid agreements between gonads and frontal lobe at a rate relative to the dark closing in. Yet two speeds in paroxysm need not mesh. A burning heart, failing to strike while hot, may not save the burning feet.
Read Poem The lightest particles gather the energy, he says, and given their density, outweigh stars. Thought follows thought, the interval calibrated on the space between your legs. Your yes fire, your no the crack of a whip. Well, more a filament breaking in a lightbulb. Eating from the Tree of Knowledge can’t be undone. Only muddied, as by motivation. And the way you thrust out your belly as you walk, with almost shameless indifference, makes a void in the air, but no case for cosmic deceleration.
So even if I despair of plane surfaces, she says, writing, even talking, becomes an act of faith that my bondage to grammar and lexicon is not in vain. That these symbols in their beautiful and hallucinatory nudity blind me only to make me see. There is fire under the smoke. The sun also rises and falls.
We still read at risk, he says, but we don’t need to lard the crocodile with arrows. The picture won’t devour us. It is swallowed in the fluid agreements between gonads and frontal lobe at a rate relative to the dark closing in. Yet two speeds in paroxysm need not mesh. A burning heart, failing to strike while hot, may not save the burning feet.
0
Knees of a Natural Man by Henry Dumas
![Henry Dumas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_thnNIieKRXcA5jqErMLzjewvkGpRgrpiugJuJSFo.jpeg)
for Jay Wright my ole man took me to the fulton fish market
we walk around in the guts and the scales
Read Poem we walk around in the guts and the scales
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O. by Robin Blaser
![Robin Blaser](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ZK8j1nM4Yv66BN8YeKVVVsGl3qJYXiSOuHRMUiwb.jpeg)
the poets have always preceded,
as Mallarmé preceded Cézanne,
neck and neck that was no
privilege, sweet and forgotten
seated in chairs, the afternoon
marches along with the shadows
which are not bougainvillaea but
northern I have always loved
Read Poem as Mallarmé preceded Cézanne,
neck and neck that was no
privilege, sweet and forgotten
seated in chairs, the afternoon
marches along with the shadows
which are not bougainvillaea but
northern I have always loved
0
Emily Sparks by Edgar Lee Masters
![Edgar Lee Masters](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_oUx5deZBOXp6I8xLr4pnrFl5kvZUQ1wpLeJoYiR7.jpeg)
Where is my boy, my boy—
In what far part of the world?
The boy I loved best of all in the school?—
I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,
Who made them all my children.
Did I know my boy aright,
Thinking of him as spirit aflame,
Active, ever aspiring?
Read Poem In what far part of the world?
The boy I loved best of all in the school?—
I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,
Who made them all my children.
Did I know my boy aright,
Thinking of him as spirit aflame,
Active, ever aspiring?
0
On An Unsociable Family by Elizabeth Hands
![Elizabeth Hands](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
O what a strange parcel of creatures are we,
Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree;
We all are alone, though at home altogether,
Except to the fire constrained by the weather;
Then one says, ‘’Tis cold’, which we all of us know,
And with unanimity answer, ‘’Tis so’:
With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,
And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;
Then quickly, preceded by silence profound,
A yawn epidemical catches around:
Like social companions we never fall out,
Nor ever care what one another’s about;
To comfort each other is never our plan,
For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.
Read Poem Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree;
We all are alone, though at home altogether,
Except to the fire constrained by the weather;
Then one says, ‘’Tis cold’, which we all of us know,
And with unanimity answer, ‘’Tis so’:
With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,
And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;
Then quickly, preceded by silence profound,
A yawn epidemical catches around:
Like social companions we never fall out,
Nor ever care what one another’s about;
To comfort each other is never our plan,
For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.
0
from Letter in April: IV by Inger Christensen
![Inger Christensen](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_qmhIxG2hXozDE3jR4Oscc6tOu2ukgkqgoh71BzNB.jpeg)
Already on the street
with our money clutched
in our hands,
and the world is a white laundry,
where we are boiled and wrung
and dried and ironed,
and smoothed down
and forsaken
Read Poem with our money clutched
in our hands,
and the world is a white laundry,
where we are boiled and wrung
and dried and ironed,
and smoothed down
and forsaken
0
The Misanthropist by James Monroe Whitfield
![James Monroe Whitfield](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
In vain thou bid’st me strike the lyre,
And sing a song of mirth and glee,
Or, kindling with poetic fire,
Attempt some higher minstrelsy;
In vain, in vain! for every thought
That issues from this throbbing brain,
Is from its first conception fraught
With gloom and darkness, woe and pain.
From earliest youth my path has been
Cast in life’s darkest, deepest shade,
Where no bright ray did intervene,
Nor e’er a passing sunbeam strayed;
But all was dark and cheerless night,
Without one ray of hopeful light.
From childhood, then, through many a shock,
Read Poem And sing a song of mirth and glee,
Or, kindling with poetic fire,
Attempt some higher minstrelsy;
In vain, in vain! for every thought
That issues from this throbbing brain,
Is from its first conception fraught
With gloom and darkness, woe and pain.
From earliest youth my path has been
Cast in life’s darkest, deepest shade,
Where no bright ray did intervene,
Nor e’er a passing sunbeam strayed;
But all was dark and cheerless night,
Without one ray of hopeful light.
From childhood, then, through many a shock,
0
The Apparition by Herman Melville
![Herman Melville](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yEzHhPfMBSmeoXArDeTkZ1lP68lXBPzNXXFhP0AV.jpeg)
(A Retrospect) Convulsions came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
Read Poem Long slept in pastoral green,
0
‘Fire in the window’ by Mary Mapes Dodge
![Mary Mapes Dodge](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ABvGLOEVVODEyhNHtOGdfklePbKg6a8XxDQas5Pg.jpeg)
Fire in the window! flashes in the pane!
Fire on the roof-top! blazing weather-vane!
Turn about, weather-vane! put the fire out!
The sun’s going down, sir, I haven’t a doubt.
Read Poem Fire on the roof-top! blazing weather-vane!
Turn about, weather-vane! put the fire out!
The sun’s going down, sir, I haven’t a doubt.
0
Lincoln by Vachel Lindsay
![Vachel Lindsay](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_WL3CwbEgTHhpBZjdjRjvAswo0VM3ONWUCTGfylb6.jpeg)
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.
Read Poem That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.
0
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.
0
Christmas Night by Conrad Hilberry
![Conrad Hilberry](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Let midnight gather up the wind
and the cry of tires on bitter snow.
Let midnight call the cold dogs home,
sleet in their fur—last one can blow
the streetlights out.If children sleep
after the day’s unfoldings, the wheel
of gifts and griefs, may their breathing
ease the strange hollowness we feel.
Read Poem and the cry of tires on bitter snow.
Let midnight call the cold dogs home,
sleet in their fur—last one can blow
the streetlights out.If children sleep
after the day’s unfoldings, the wheel
of gifts and griefs, may their breathing
ease the strange hollowness we feel.
0
Amoretti XXX: My Love is like to ice, and I to fire by Edmund Spenser
![Edmund Spenser](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_64DgNz7sLAp5Z7kSy0jOFf43I7QFVTFwanFm5Ndu.jpeg)
My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
Read Poem How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
0
Bridal Song by George Chapman
![George Chapman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The fields his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Read Poem Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The fields his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
0
Brief reflection on accuracy by Miroslav Holub
![Miroslav Holub](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_7c4bjiMVYoHIelCz2vrqp4poqmz2dUNQx2BRtKc5.jpeg)
Fish
always accurately know where to move and when,
and likewise
birds have an accurate built-in time sense
and orientation.
Humanity, however,
lacking such instincts resorts to scientific
research. Its nature is illustrated by the following
Read Poem always accurately know where to move and when,
and likewise
birds have an accurate built-in time sense
and orientation.
Humanity, however,
lacking such instincts resorts to scientific
research. Its nature is illustrated by the following
0
The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell SJ
![Robert Southwell SJ](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow,
Surpris’d I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
“Alas!” quoth he, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.”
With this he vanish’d out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
Read Poem Surpris’d I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
“Alas!” quoth he, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men’s defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.”
With this he vanish’d out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
0
Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day by Delmore Schwartz
![Delmore Schwartz](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_5eHQ36dFX2TGZvf5J0KxjsYihLFYgvD3A9mC0zQ6.jpeg)
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-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Read Poem Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
0
Cassandra by H.D.
![H.D.](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0brXuzmHn7OExgskeSmSjA1UJRhHm24sVOX0gNTc.jpeg)
O Hymen king.
Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
Read Poem Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
0
The Disabled Debauchee by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester
![John Wilmot Earl of Rochester](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_AcnTE5PGYcujVCIkenYXopVAihzDFSuXEuozGxE2.jpeg)
As some brave admiral, in former war
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;
From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
Whilst each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory and his past delight;
From his fierce eyes flashes of fire he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away;
Transported, thinks himself amidst the foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody day;
Read Poem Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;
From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
Whilst each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory and his past delight;
From his fierce eyes flashes of fire he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away;
Transported, thinks himself amidst the foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody day;
0
Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher by Walter Savage Landor
![Walter Savage Landor](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_NR24jPFRJ4WuQI9L1uazgOipVXt1eGDfMuMvJqJH.jpeg)
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
Read Poem Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
0
Hot Sun, Cool Fire by George Peele
![George Peele](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.
Read Poem Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.
0
Idea 14: If he from heaven that filched that living fire by Michael Drayton
![Michael Drayton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_u7i7o7uqaMNdXZUkviSt823tJ0ZCcMs2M9ueFSYu.jpeg)
If he from heaven that filched that living fire
Condemned by Jove to endless torment be,
I greatly marvel how you still go free,
That far beyond Prometheus did aspire.
The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind,
Which from above he craftily did take,
Of liveless clods, us living men to make,
He did bestow in temper of the mind.
But you broke into heaven’s immortal store,
Where virtue, honor, wit, and beauty lay;
Which taking thence you have escaped away,
Yet stand as free as ere you did before;
Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape.
Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater ‘scape.
Read Poem Condemned by Jove to endless torment be,
I greatly marvel how you still go free,
That far beyond Prometheus did aspire.
The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind,
Which from above he craftily did take,
Of liveless clods, us living men to make,
He did bestow in temper of the mind.
But you broke into heaven’s immortal store,
Where virtue, honor, wit, and beauty lay;
Which taking thence you have escaped away,
Yet stand as free as ere you did before;
Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape.
Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater ‘scape.
0
Sea Poppies by H.D.
![H.D.](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0brXuzmHn7OExgskeSmSjA1UJRhHm24sVOX0gNTc.jpeg)
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
Read Poem fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
0
The Soldier and the Snow by Miguel Hernández
![Miguel Hernández](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_QF9z0LJBcEyC0IF5jXoApkSi12XhkEx79Itvoe47.jpeg)
December has frozen its double-edged breath
and blows it down from the icy heavens,
like a dry fire coming apart in threads,
like a huge ruin that topples on soldiers.
Snow where horses have left their hoof-marks
is a solitude of grief that gallops on.
Snow like split fingernails, or claws badly worn,
like a malice out of heaven or a final contempt.
Read Poem and blows it down from the icy heavens,
like a dry fire coming apart in threads,
like a huge ruin that topples on soldiers.
Snow where horses have left their hoof-marks
is a solitude of grief that gallops on.
Snow like split fingernails, or claws badly worn,
like a malice out of heaven or a final contempt.
0
You and I by Stanley Moss
![Stanley Moss](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_VZfsChEkHR1tC7BNHjya6B6jcBLWVcGuDcANk2i7.jpeg)
You are Jehovah, and I am a wanderer.
Who should have mercy on a wanderer
if not Jehovah? You create and I decay.
Who should have mercy on the decayed
if not the creator? You are the Judge
and I the guilty Who should have mercy
on the guilty if not the Judge? You are All
and I am a particle. Who should have mercy
Read Poem Who should have mercy on a wanderer
if not Jehovah? You create and I decay.
Who should have mercy on the decayed
if not the creator? You are the Judge
and I the guilty Who should have mercy
on the guilty if not the Judge? You are All
and I am a particle. Who should have mercy
0
The Burnt Child by W. S. Merwin
![W. S. Merwin](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BbeWKMxLGsW4JmxNPi7TDOlw19kUVrOrzWO0UsxK.jpeg)
Matches among other things that were not allowed
never would be
lying high in a cool blue box
that opened in other hands and there they all were
bodies clean and smooth blue heads white crowns
white sandpaper on the sides of the box scoring
fire after fire gone before
I could hear the scratch and flare
Read Poem never would be
lying high in a cool blue box
that opened in other hands and there they all were
bodies clean and smooth blue heads white crowns
white sandpaper on the sides of the box scoring
fire after fire gone before
I could hear the scratch and flare
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Complete Destruction by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
Read Poem We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
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De Profundis by Christina Rossetti
![Christina Rossetti](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rCIGbd5dYNgOCuj2OqH7pLxBRR7fZ3gzxgYfJ25D.jpeg)
Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.
I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Read Poem Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.
I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
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Dedication for a Plot of Ground by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
This plot of ground
facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
Read Poem facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
0
Fire and Ice by Robert Frost
![Robert Frost](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_htc3wjaKrdEKxzF0w7Zh5E3uNgyqeBW7IkLxi7Do.jpeg)
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
Read Poem Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
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the garden of delight by Lucille Clifton
![Lucille Clifton](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_2c7llDT6nDFjTRihyDN6sdnMcOxmT4g1xqcZMAe9.jpeg)
for some
it is stone
bare smooth
as a buttock
rounding
into the crevasse
of the world
for some
Read Poem it is stone
bare smooth
as a buttock
rounding
into the crevasse
of the world
for some
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High Noon at Los Alamos by Eleanor Wilner
![Eleanor Wilner](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lwjPIRmip73hpeBUOcbcegy89QCcAPqTF1o5dMtK.jpeg)
To turn a stone
with its white squirming
underneath, to pry the disc
from the sun’s eclipse—white heat
coiling in the blinded eye: to these malign
necessities we come
from the dim time of dinosaurs
who crawled like breathing lava
Read Poem with its white squirming
underneath, to pry the disc
from the sun’s eclipse—white heat
coiling in the blinded eye: to these malign
necessities we come
from the dim time of dinosaurs
who crawled like breathing lava
0
The House of Life: 41. Through Death to Love by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
![Dante Gabriel Rossetti](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_o8iuPehACZ73PC2bHoqswDZQrZyLSv1KYK7ZkdY4.jpeg)
Like labour-laden moonclouds faint to flee
From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,—
Like multiform circumfluence manifold
Of night's flood-tide,—like terrors that agree
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,—
Even such, within some glass dimm'd by our breath,
Our hearts discern wild images of Death,
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity.
Read Poem From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,—
Like multiform circumfluence manifold
Of night's flood-tide,—like terrors that agree
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,—
Even such, within some glass dimm'd by our breath,
Our hearts discern wild images of Death,
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity.
0
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 83 by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
![Alfred, Lord Tennyson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yFq4gHV5lwFOryeQjrkj818WfvusALzybK4qWfvR.jpeg)
Dip down upon the northern shore
O sweet new-year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.
What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?
Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speed well's darling blue,
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
Read Poem O sweet new-year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.
What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?
Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speed well's darling blue,
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.
0
Last Words to Miriam by D. H. Lawrence
![D. H. Lawrence](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_KHvzQW3dtV2PLP5bqRpcLOaXPs01wwURr2CDtNpT.jpeg)
Version 1 (1921)
Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.
I was diligent to explore you,
Read Poem Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.
I was diligent to explore you,
0
Let It Be Forgotten by Sara Teasdale
![Sara Teasdale](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_wppD0jYKwDMvCOrftlBETNUgIC1woLLRFJXqFI0I.jpeg)
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.
Read Poem Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.
0
Liberty by Archibald MacLeish
![Archibald MacLeish](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_QUyGCBAv8TZ3Fdj9YrTzNTm5SD8CiNuj7kfHvdT0.jpeg)
When liberty is headlong girl
And runs her roads and wends her ways
Liberty will shriek and whirl
Her showery torch to see it blaze.
When liberty is wedded wife
And keeps the barn and counts the byre
Liberty amends her life.
She drowns her torch for fear of fire.
Read Poem And runs her roads and wends her ways
Liberty will shriek and whirl
Her showery torch to see it blaze.
When liberty is wedded wife
And keeps the barn and counts the byre
Liberty amends her life.
She drowns her torch for fear of fire.
0
Much in Little by Yvor Winters
![Yvor Winters](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_zMdQFIpaDuaxpvsUY460xXrphSvCBHdEPyE5XOvf.jpeg)
Amid the iris and the rose,
The honeysuckle and the bay,
The wild earth for a moment goes
In dust or weed another way.
Small though its corner be, the weed
Will yet intrude its creeping beard;
The harsh blade and the hairy seed
Recall the brutal earth we feared.
Read Poem The honeysuckle and the bay,
The wild earth for a moment goes
In dust or weed another way.
Small though its corner be, the weed
Will yet intrude its creeping beard;
The harsh blade and the hairy seed
Recall the brutal earth we feared.
0
from The Princess: Thy Voice is Heard by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
![Alfred, Lord Tennyson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yFq4gHV5lwFOryeQjrkj818WfvusALzybK4qWfvR.jpeg)
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
0
Sappho by James Wright
![James Wright](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_AJzJsVaQNEjw1zmGeJhTpUpocrnWX1CKNcBI4fZF.jpeg)
Ach, in den Armen hab ich sie alle verloren, du nur, du wirst immer wieder geboren ....
—Rilke, Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge The twilight falls; I soften the dusting feathers,
And clean again.
Read Poem —Rilke, Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge The twilight falls; I soften the dusting feathers,
And clean again.
0
Seeing for a Moment by Denise Levertov
![Denise Levertov](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_gbUCY6l638HoyIRvo6HRbhq3ShQJQ6H1TJEUbi8p.jpeg)
I thought I was growing wings—
it was a cocoon.
I thought, now is the time to step
into the fire—
it was deep water.
Eschatology is a word I learned
as a child: the study of Last Things;
facing my mirror—no longer young,
Read Poem it was a cocoon.
I thought, now is the time to step
into the fire—
it was deep water.
Eschatology is a word I learned
as a child: the study of Last Things;
facing my mirror—no longer young,
0
A Shropshire Lad 30: Others, I am not the first by A. E. Housman
![A. E. Housman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_40sbV0QwcyCeV4V3nmphLVUeaGhWxF3RYvmX1R5J.jpeg)
Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.
Read Poem Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.
0
Song of the Witches: “Double, double toil and trouble” by William Shakespeare
![William Shakespeare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LIshk0OYoGQiQRlFsX56zUPHjrJnY4whjKyDurmB.jpeg)
(fromMacbeth) Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Read Poem Fire burn and caldron bubble.
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To Quilca, a Country House not in Good Repair by Jonathan Swift
![Jonathan Swift](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_qsDhPd4HrRYJOJQEMDdf3XxBeGuFPyraFUFTnpLO.jpeg)
Let me thy Properties explain,
A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak;
Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke:
Here Elements have lost their Vses,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor Water boil.
Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains,
The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns;
And her chief Officers of State,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
Read Poem A rotten Cabin, dropping Rain;
Chimnies with Scorn rejecting Smoak;
Stools, Tables, Chairs, and Bed-steds broke:
Here Elements have lost their Vses,
Air ripens not, nor Earth produces:
In vain we make poor Sheelah toil,
Fire will not roast, nor Water boil.
Thro' all the Vallies, Hills, and Plains,
The Goddess Want in Triumph reigns;
And her chief Officers of State,
Sloth, Dirt, and Theft around her wait.
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The Tyger by William Blake
![William Blake](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_cDG3GFf8uWuzMRCkdejnlItPsB3plVLERjeuDKlg.jpeg)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
Read Poem In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
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When he would have his Verses Read by Robert Herrick
![Robert Herrick](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_FrQsofdlOp62E1BloNWR1iFClxg8LqX1ljHzBZBu.jpeg)
In sober mornings do thou not rehearse
The holy incantation of a verse;
But when that men have both well drunk, and fed,
Let my enchantments then be sung, or read.
When laurel spurts i' th' fire, and when the hearth
Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth;
When up the thyrse is raised, and when the sound
Of sacred orgies flies: "A round, a round;"
Read Poem The holy incantation of a verse;
But when that men have both well drunk, and fed,
Let my enchantments then be sung, or read.
When laurel spurts i' th' fire, and when the hearth
Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth;
When up the thyrse is raised, and when the sound
Of sacred orgies flies: "A round, a round;"
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