The soaring dust of the mortal realm by Fei Ming 废名
![Fei Ming 废名](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Not to speak of timely rain falling wondrously upon ethereal mountains,
Nor to dwell on footsteps echoing through hollow illusory valleys,
Here’s yet another predictable batch of grainy residue,
Still the mortal dust of the vast universe—
Beyond the eaves, the lone call of a sparrow.
Alas, pages of poetry, please become ashes taking flight.
The empty void is a speck of the heart that cherishes deeply.
The universe is a particle of unbroken dust drifting in the air.
Read Poem Nor to dwell on footsteps echoing through hollow illusory valleys,
Here’s yet another predictable batch of grainy residue,
Still the mortal dust of the vast universe—
Beyond the eaves, the lone call of a sparrow.
Alas, pages of poetry, please become ashes taking flight.
The empty void is a speck of the heart that cherishes deeply.
The universe is a particle of unbroken dust drifting in the air.
0
Rain by Jack Gilbert
![Jack Gilbert](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
Read Poem This rain.
The blues gone gray
and yellow
a terrible amber.
In the cold streets
your warm body.
In whatever room
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On the Mountain by John Haines
![John Haines](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_uhoEdHUhJNez1Q6KA6SJUhkLoZI9BNZ1XELhC6j5.jpeg)
We climbed out of timber,
bending on the steep meadow
to look for berries,
then still in the reddening sunlight
went on up the windy shoulder.
A shadow followed us up the mountain
like a black moon rising.
Minute by minute the autumn lamps
Read Poem bending on the steep meadow
to look for berries,
then still in the reddening sunlight
went on up the windy shoulder.
A shadow followed us up the mountain
like a black moon rising.
Minute by minute the autumn lamps
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Map of the New World by Derek Walcott
![Derek Walcott](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LxPKrVfuwSlzCOW37UWNbKty0kqbgkG51RCpM3zG.jpeg)
I Archipelagoes
At the end of this sentence, rain will begin.
At the rain's edge, a sail.
Slowly the sail will lose sight of islands;
into a mist will go the belief in harbours
of an entire race.
The ten-years war is finished.
Helen's hair, a grey cloud.
Read Poem At the rain's edge, a sail.
Slowly the sail will lose sight of islands;
into a mist will go the belief in harbours
of an entire race.
The ten-years war is finished.
Helen's hair, a grey cloud.
0
Spring and All: III The farmer in deep thought by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
The farmer in deep thought
is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
Read Poem is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
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To the Rain by Ursula K. Le Guin
![Ursula K. Le Guin](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_J9ThOHa1e3isOqn7g2ubhd2JRgontWHf3JqYUdbN.jpeg)
Mother rain, manifold, measureless,
falling on fallow, on field and forest,
on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,
downwelling waters all-washing, wider
than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster
than countrysides, calming, recalling:
return to us, teaching our troubled
souls in your ceaseless descent
Read Poem falling on fallow, on field and forest,
on house-roof, low hovel, high tower,
downwelling waters all-washing, wider
than cities, softer than sisterhood, vaster
than countrysides, calming, recalling:
return to us, teaching our troubled
souls in your ceaseless descent
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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The bottoms of my shoes by Jack Kerouac
![Jack Kerouac](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
The bottoms of my shoes
are clean
From walking in the rain
Read Poem are clean
From walking in the rain
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from Aurora Leigh, Third Book by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
![Elizabeth Barrett Browning](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_z8y1J4rLh6Jr9RVLqy9dZj45o52Moc6BbZw7C9uC.jpeg)
Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–
A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
Read Poem A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
0
From where I stand by Pat Schneider
![Pat Schneider](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xK0Mzvcnr4ZTJBCFRpcVsAUDfwNSJRj7mlDKbY6Z.jpeg)
at the third floor window of the tenement,
the street looks shiny.
It has been washed and rinsed by rain.
Beyond the silver streaks of the streetcar tracks
a single streetlight stands
in a pool of wet light. It is night.
St. Louis. Nineteen forty-seven.
I have just come home from the orphanage
Read Poem the street looks shiny.
It has been washed and rinsed by rain.
Beyond the silver streaks of the streetcar tracks
a single streetlight stands
in a pool of wet light. It is night.
St. Louis. Nineteen forty-seven.
I have just come home from the orphanage
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The Girl on the Bullard Overpass by Peter Everwine
![Peter Everwine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
The girl on the Bullard overpass
looks happy to be there, getting soaked
in a light rain but waving her hands
to the four o'clock freeway traffic
in which I'm anything but happy.
You might think she's too dumb
to come in out of the rain, but rain
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Untitled by James Baldwin
![James Baldwin](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Qu9Rdydeeg9QvI9nWD3LPPH0zHk6ggjx5ulFkLKx.jpeg)
Lord,
when you send the rain
think about it, please,
a little?
Do
not get carried away
by the sound of falling water,
the marvelous light
Read Poem when you send the rain
think about it, please,
a little?
Do
not get carried away
by the sound of falling water,
the marvelous light
0
Everything by Lawson Fusao Inada
![Lawson Fusao Inada](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
When the river rose that year, we were beside it
and ourselves with fear; not that it would do anything
to us, mind you—our hopes were much too high for that—
but there was always that remote, unacknowledged possibility
that we had thrown one stone too many, by the handful,
and that by some force of nature, as they called it,
it might rain and rain for days, as it had been,
with nothing to hold it and the structure back,
Read Poem and ourselves with fear; not that it would do anything
to us, mind you—our hopes were much too high for that—
but there was always that remote, unacknowledged possibility
that we had thrown one stone too many, by the handful,
and that by some force of nature, as they called it,
it might rain and rain for days, as it had been,
with nothing to hold it and the structure back,
0
The Song of the Ungirt Runners by Charles Hamilton Sorley
![Charles Hamilton Sorley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_07TgNqqKDtXAeXGx9I6x46Fx7JPph4lzEIGWe4R6.jpeg)
We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
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Marching by Isaac Rosenberg
![Isaac Rosenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ADDffcTLpP73MILQOOc9iqAzZYQWzcxnmpSzJlPA.jpeg)
My eyes catch ruddy necks
Sturdily pressed back.
All a red-brick moving glint.
Like flaming pendulums, hands
Swing across the khaki—
Mustard coloured khaki—
To the automatic feet.
We husband the ancient glory
In these bared necks and hands.
Not broke is the forge of Mars;
But a subtler brain beats iron
To shoe the hoofs of death.
Who pays dynamic air now?—
Blind fingers loose an iron cloud
Read Poem Sturdily pressed back.
All a red-brick moving glint.
Like flaming pendulums, hands
Swing across the khaki—
Mustard coloured khaki—
To the automatic feet.
We husband the ancient glory
In these bared necks and hands.
Not broke is the forge of Mars;
But a subtler brain beats iron
To shoe the hoofs of death.
Who pays dynamic air now?—
Blind fingers loose an iron cloud
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from The Prodigal: 11 by Derek Walcott
![Derek Walcott](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LxPKrVfuwSlzCOW37UWNbKty0kqbgkG51RCpM3zG.jpeg)
I
The dialect of the scrub in the dry season
withers the flow of English. Things burn for days
without translation, with the heat
of the scorched pastures and their skeletal cows.
Every noun is a stump with its roots showing,
and the creole language rushes like weeds
until the entire island is overrun,
Read Poem The dialect of the scrub in the dry season
withers the flow of English. Things burn for days
without translation, with the heat
of the scorched pastures and their skeletal cows.
Every noun is a stump with its roots showing,
and the creole language rushes like weeds
until the entire island is overrun,
0
And I in My Bed Again by Hilda Morley
![Hilda Morley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Last night
tossed in
my bed
the sound of the rain turned me
around,
a leaf
in a dried gully
from side to
Read Poem tossed in
my bed
the sound of the rain turned me
around,
a leaf
in a dried gully
from side to
0
Murderer Part I by Curzio Malaparte
![Curzio Malaparte](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_gDJGDy8K51X7UHPOMhqTDY1X5zcfeJzr5d5IoAqR.jpeg)
I
The whole of human history …
The whole of human history
seems to be the story of men who kill,
and of men who are killed;
of murderers who light their cigarettes
with trembling hands,
Read Poem The whole of human history …
The whole of human history
seems to be the story of men who kill,
and of men who are killed;
of murderers who light their cigarettes
with trembling hands,
0
The Mother by Ruth Stone
![Ruth Stone](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_uauZPYEVXWoyK61bFaO78QmtAZmXea0Fe9TD9ub6.jpeg)
Here where the rooms are dryly still
Who is this dustily asleep
While juicy children run the field?
Where is her ever deepening well
Whose buckets to a fullness dip
For needs compassion must fulfill?
Like freshets they themselves may yield
A little to the turned up cup,
But death is in the long dry spell.
Run children, run, the light grows dull,
And she who keeps the well must sleep,
And rain is unpredictable.
Read Poem Who is this dustily asleep
While juicy children run the field?
Where is her ever deepening well
Whose buckets to a fullness dip
For needs compassion must fulfill?
Like freshets they themselves may yield
A little to the turned up cup,
But death is in the long dry spell.
Run children, run, the light grows dull,
And she who keeps the well must sleep,
And rain is unpredictable.
0
Trees by Joyce Kilmer
![Joyce Kilmer](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Xby7rt95jWn6XzkpPjEUVRUatP32m6miTnf3SZIE.jpeg)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Read Poem A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
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He is pruning the privet by Joanne Kyger
![Joanne Kyger](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ye4qzZkh3eUZWKY759901AuaZR7InS3qQ6MOWmPX.jpeg)
He is pruning the privet
of sickly sorrow desolation
in loose pieces of air he goes clip clip clip
the green blooming branches fall—‘they’re getting out
of hand’ delirious and adorable what a switch
we perceive multiple
identities when you sing so beautifully the shifting
0
Empty Space by Amrita Pritam
![Amrita Pritam](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
There were two kingdoms only:
the first of them threw out both him and me.
The second we abandoned.
Under a bare sky
I for a long time soaked in the rain of my body,
he for a long time rotted in the rain of his.
Then like a poison he drank the fondness of the years.
He held my hand with a trembling hand.
Read Poem the first of them threw out both him and me.
The second we abandoned.
Under a bare sky
I for a long time soaked in the rain of my body,
he for a long time rotted in the rain of his.
Then like a poison he drank the fondness of the years.
He held my hand with a trembling hand.
0
The Rain by Robert Creeley
![Robert Creeley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_AINQ7WRT3NZx6zyyWypCqUSifxHPBAm9wOM6lT2M.jpeg)
All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
Read Poem come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.
What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it
0
Song by Alicia Ostriker
![Alicia Ostriker](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_gofrgABaMZAFMGnN8obIeeoZGoYHklesIQV84gYg.jpeg)
Some claim the origin of song
was a war cry
some say it was a rhyme
telling the farmers when to plant and reap
don’t they know the first song was a lullaby
pulled from a mother’s sleep
said the old woman
A significant
factor generating my delight in being
alive this springtime
is the birdsong
that like a sweeping mesh has captured me
like diamond rain I can’t
hear it enough said the tulip
Read Poem was a war cry
some say it was a rhyme
telling the farmers when to plant and reap
don’t they know the first song was a lullaby
pulled from a mother’s sleep
said the old woman
A significant
factor generating my delight in being
alive this springtime
is the birdsong
that like a sweeping mesh has captured me
like diamond rain I can’t
hear it enough said the tulip
0
Storm Ending by Jean Toomer
![Jean Toomer](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_P2Wh1H1NCUSe0M2s83jeX5I8jk4Koz5V1hXn8hyf.jpeg)
Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,
Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey—
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.
Read Poem Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey—
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.
0
Rain by Peter Everwine
![Peter Everwine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Toward evening, as the light failed
and the pear tree at my window darkened,
I put down my book and stood at the open door,
the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent, I heard
Read Poem and the pear tree at my window darkened,
I put down my book and stood at the open door,
the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent, I heard
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Six Prayers by Ralph Salisbury
![Ralph Salisbury](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_KzH0ehIvZ3gkK7RCnfZMJuqimpl72bos9xnRRAq1.jpeg)
Thunderer God of the turbulent sky may
my turbulent mind shape
for my people
rain clouds
beans
pumpkins
and yams.
East Spirit
Read Poem my turbulent mind shape
for my people
rain clouds
beans
pumpkins
and yams.
East Spirit
0
Darkling Summer, Ominous Dusk, Rumorous Rain by Delmore Schwartz
![Delmore Schwartz](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_5eHQ36dFX2TGZvf5J0KxjsYihLFYgvD3A9mC0zQ6.jpeg)
1
A tattering of rain and then the reign
Of pour and pouring-down and down,
Where in the westward gathered the filming gown
Of grey and clouding weakness, and, in the mane
Of the light’s glory and the day’s splendor, gold and vain,
Vivid, more and more vivid, scarlet, lucid and more luminous,
Then came a splatter, a prattle, a blowing rain!
Read Poem A tattering of rain and then the reign
Of pour and pouring-down and down,
Where in the westward gathered the filming gown
Of grey and clouding weakness, and, in the mane
Of the light’s glory and the day’s splendor, gold and vain,
Vivid, more and more vivid, scarlet, lucid and more luminous,
Then came a splatter, a prattle, a blowing rain!
0
On the Great Atlantic Rainway by Kenneth Koch
![Kenneth Koch](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pav3ApmjyCo5mMpJlWn9mYqMHCMk9ySBjadG1Hb3.jpeg)
I set forth one misted white day of June
Beneath the great Atlantic rainway, and heard:
“Honestly you smite worlds of truth, but
Lose your own trains of thought, like a pigeon.
Did you once ride in Kenneth’s machine?”
“Yes, I rode there, an old man in shorts, blind,
Who had lost his way in the filling station; Kenneth was kind.”
“Did he fill your motionless ears with resonance and stain?”
Read Poem Beneath the great Atlantic rainway, and heard:
“Honestly you smite worlds of truth, but
Lose your own trains of thought, like a pigeon.
Did you once ride in Kenneth’s machine?”
“Yes, I rode there, an old man in shorts, blind,
Who had lost his way in the filling station; Kenneth was kind.”
“Did he fill your motionless ears with resonance and stain?”
0
For Gustave Moreau by Robin Blaser
![Robin Blaser](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ZK8j1nM4Yv66BN8YeKVVVsGl3qJYXiSOuHRMUiwb.jpeg)
The streets are my body
or rather the wish
of the skin to put on
the grass in a gold rain
not vice-versa,
the lips twisting to allow
the tongue to play in
the broken mirror on the floor
Read Poem or rather the wish
of the skin to put on
the grass in a gold rain
not vice-versa,
the lips twisting to allow
the tongue to play in
the broken mirror on the floor
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Walter Llywarch by R. S. Thomas
![R. S. Thomas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Doijd5EPEsUPdE9YAlMm8vZqV3cfr6K2WrY0PdgT.jpeg)
I am, as you know, Walter Llywarch,
Born in Wales of approved parents,
Well goitred, round in the bum,
Sure prey of the slow virus
Bred in quarries of grey rain.
Born in autumn at the right time
For hearing stories from the cracked lips
Of old folk dreaming of summer,
Read Poem Born in Wales of approved parents,
Well goitred, round in the bum,
Sure prey of the slow virus
Bred in quarries of grey rain.
Born in autumn at the right time
For hearing stories from the cracked lips
Of old folk dreaming of summer,
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Boy and Father by Carl Sandburg
![Carl Sandburg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xk3VAgf240a1ZC3vaMTDQNmxv9MRCZnvfqZbsmyE.jpeg)
The boy Alexander understands his father to be a famous lawyer.
The leather law books of Alexander’s father fill a room like hay in a barn.
Alexander has asked his father to let him build a house like bricklayers build, a house with walls and roofs made of big leather law books.
The rain beats on the windows
And the raindrops run down the window glass
And the raindrops slide off the green blinds down the siding.
The boy Alexander dreams of Napoleon in John C. Abbott’s history, Napoleon the grand and lonely man wronged, Napoleon in his life wronged and in his memory wronged.
The boy Alexander dreams of the cat Alice saw, the cat fading off into the dark and leaving the teeth of its Cheshire smile lighting the gloom.
Buffaloes, blizzards, way down in Texas, in the panhandle of Texas snuggling close to New Mexico,
These creep into Alexander’s dreaming by the window when his father talks with strange men about land down in Deaf Smith County.
Alexander’s father tells the strange men: Five years ago we ran a Ford out on the prairie and chased antelopes.
Read Poem The leather law books of Alexander’s father fill a room like hay in a barn.
Alexander has asked his father to let him build a house like bricklayers build, a house with walls and roofs made of big leather law books.
The rain beats on the windows
And the raindrops run down the window glass
And the raindrops slide off the green blinds down the siding.
The boy Alexander dreams of Napoleon in John C. Abbott’s history, Napoleon the grand and lonely man wronged, Napoleon in his life wronged and in his memory wronged.
The boy Alexander dreams of the cat Alice saw, the cat fading off into the dark and leaving the teeth of its Cheshire smile lighting the gloom.
Buffaloes, blizzards, way down in Texas, in the panhandle of Texas snuggling close to New Mexico,
These creep into Alexander’s dreaming by the window when his father talks with strange men about land down in Deaf Smith County.
Alexander’s father tells the strange men: Five years ago we ran a Ford out on the prairie and chased antelopes.
0
Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout by Gary Snyder
![Gary Snyder](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_5n5yg85vZo1yHb84DsatAJ8QhtA53o8Ga5KwpCp6.jpeg)
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Read Poem Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
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Rain by Edward Thomas
![Edward Thomas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rWaJjxq46Z7DXOmN6nYTVRdqSvDne350lrRSwRG0.jpeg)
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Read Poem On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
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Cage by Josephine Miles
![Josephine Miles](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_vBc2ofAtqhGVG1azp0T7Btbul4xSEs86hZ3prT4d.jpeg)
Through the branches of the Japanese cherry
Blooming like a cloud which will rain
A rain white as the sun
The living room across the roadway
Cuts its square of light
And in it fight
Two figures, hot, irate,
Stuck between sink and sofa in that golden cage.
Read Poem Blooming like a cloud which will rain
A rain white as the sun
The living room across the roadway
Cuts its square of light
And in it fight
Two figures, hot, irate,
Stuck between sink and sofa in that golden cage.
0
The Great Figure by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
Read Poem and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
0
What Work Is by Philip Levine
![Philip Levine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rIKNQLSz2ELbPKtkYPCH8FelonWo4QanmDEfaEYA.jpeg)
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
Read Poem waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
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Camping Out by Edwin Gladding Burrows
![Edwin Gladding Burrows](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
I watched the nesting redstart
when we camped by Lake Winnepesaukee.
The tent pegs pulled out in soft soil.
Rain made pawprints on the canvas.
So much clings to the shoes,
the old shoes must be discarded,
but we're fools to think that does it:
burning the scraps.
Read Poem when we camped by Lake Winnepesaukee.
The tent pegs pulled out in soft soil.
Rain made pawprints on the canvas.
So much clings to the shoes,
the old shoes must be discarded,
but we're fools to think that does it:
burning the scraps.
0
anyone lived in a pretty how town by E. E. Cummings
![E. E. Cummings](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_v5Bp8RX25isqZvargYmTwoS1yH3R4WqPTglWqzFg.jpeg)
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
Read Poem (with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
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from Briggflatts: An Autobiography by Basil Bunting
![Basil Bunting](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_b9b0sb7LyBiwEbdbCOWHECLBO484W0xTmgoqw0oV.jpeg)
I
Brag, sweet tenor bull,
descant on Rawthey’s madrigal,
each pebble its part
for the fells’ late spring.
Dance tiptoe, bull,
black against may.
Ridiculous and lovely
Read Poem Brag, sweet tenor bull,
descant on Rawthey’s madrigal,
each pebble its part
for the fells’ late spring.
Dance tiptoe, bull,
black against may.
Ridiculous and lovely
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The Cats Will Know by Cesare Pavese
![Cesare Pavese](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_L2AgtUDFY5FhgGzciZ6okDtKOrSDTxi58CHKv51d.jpeg)
Rain will fall again
on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step.
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
Read Poem on your smooth pavement,
a light rain like
a breath or a step.
The breeze and the dawn
will flourish again
when you return,
as if beneath your step.
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Coda by Basil Bunting
![Basil Bunting](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_b9b0sb7LyBiwEbdbCOWHECLBO484W0xTmgoqw0oV.jpeg)
A strong song tows
us, long earsick.
Blind, we follow
rain slant, spray flick
to fields we do not know.
Night, float us.
Offshore wind, shout,
ask the sea
Read Poem us, long earsick.
Blind, we follow
rain slant, spray flick
to fields we do not know.
Night, float us.
Offshore wind, shout,
ask the sea
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Crossroads by Mary Barnard
![Mary Barnard](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_fxt3UtuKdrrXu9r0rDGDPYfNKpWr5cQ5esgqAb4f.jpeg)
Rotting in the wet gray air
the railroad depot stands deserted under
still green trees. In the fields
cold begins an end.
There were other too-long-postponed departures.
They left, finally, because of well water
gone rank, the smell of fungus, the chill
of rain in chimneys.
Read Poem the railroad depot stands deserted under
still green trees. In the fields
cold begins an end.
There were other too-long-postponed departures.
They left, finally, because of well water
gone rank, the smell of fungus, the chill
of rain in chimneys.
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A Description of a City Shower by Jonathan Swift
![Jonathan Swift](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_qsDhPd4HrRYJOJQEMDdf3XxBeGuFPyraFUFTnpLO.jpeg)
Careful observers may foretell the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower:
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o’er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old achès throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swilled more liquor than it could contain,
Read Poem (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower:
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o’er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you’ll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You’ll spend in coach hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old achès throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffeehouse is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swilled more liquor than it could contain,
0
The Last Man by Eleanor Wilner
![Eleanor Wilner](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lwjPIRmip73hpeBUOcbcegy89QCcAPqTF1o5dMtK.jpeg)
for Vivian Schatz Here, in our familiar streets, the day
is brisk with winter’s business.
Read Poem is brisk with winter’s business.
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No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night by Etheridge Knight
![Etheridge Knight](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lTzA9ip4V7WtA4yUmQLeDmgi9043WQpickC5c89Z.jpeg)
No moon floods the memory of that night
only the rain I remember the cold rain
against our faces and mixing with your tears
only the rain I remember the cold rain
and your mouth soft and warm
no moon no stars no jagged pain
of lightning only my impotent tongue
and the red rage within my brain
Read Poem only the rain I remember the cold rain
against our faces and mixing with your tears
only the rain I remember the cold rain
and your mouth soft and warm
no moon no stars no jagged pain
of lightning only my impotent tongue
and the red rage within my brain
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Now by Hilda Raz
![Hilda Raz](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Some problems of self-loathing, worry:
the thumbnail blotched in a bank box
door grows out, three-quarter moon marrow spot
filled out with white bruise travels down
my thumb at regular speed, so when I glance
down it's what I see left of center, not
the odd breast, the malformed scruff
at head, the old thought leaking pain
Read Poem the thumbnail blotched in a bank box
door grows out, three-quarter moon marrow spot
filled out with white bruise travels down
my thumb at regular speed, so when I glance
down it's what I see left of center, not
the odd breast, the malformed scruff
at head, the old thought leaking pain
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Poem for My Love by June Jordan
![June Jordan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_myW8AlqGMnLWxnEcMkvRulxi853RzHxlLWisN0Ym.jpeg)
How do we come to be here next to each other
in the night
Where are the stars that show us to our love
inevitable
Outside the leaves flame usual in darkness
and the rain
falls cool and blessed on the holy flesh
the black men waiting on the corner for
Read Poem in the night
Where are the stars that show us to our love
inevitable
Outside the leaves flame usual in darkness
and the rain
falls cool and blessed on the holy flesh
the black men waiting on the corner for
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The Prediction by Mark Strand
![Mark Strand](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_FjuahjozLMXh18JEAxEcXsuGIaSrfAdmwdPzqppr.jpeg)
That night the moon drifted over the pond,
turning the water to milk, and under
the boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
a young woman walked, and for an instant
the future came to her:
rain falling on her husband’s grave, rain falling
on the lawns of her children, her own mouth
filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,
Read Poem turning the water to milk, and under
the boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
a young woman walked, and for an instant
the future came to her:
rain falling on her husband’s grave, rain falling
on the lawns of her children, her own mouth
filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,
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Reading the Bible Backwards by Eleanor Wilner
![Eleanor Wilner](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_lwjPIRmip73hpeBUOcbcegy89QCcAPqTF1o5dMtK.jpeg)
All around the altar, huge lianas
curled, unfurled the dark green
of their leaves to complement the red
of blood spilled there—a kind of Christmas
decoration, overhung with heavy vines
and over them, the stars.
When the angels came, messengers like birds
but with the oiled flesh of men, they hung
Read Poem curled, unfurled the dark green
of their leaves to complement the red
of blood spilled there—a kind of Christmas
decoration, overhung with heavy vines
and over them, the stars.
When the angels came, messengers like birds
but with the oiled flesh of men, they hung
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The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
Read Poem upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
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Simon Says by Samuel Menashe
![Samuel Menashe](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YmKoHvjHDN9rPu1oAQazHBbEOT7kFczgUReP9wFX.jpeg)
In a doorway
Staring at rain
Simple withstands
Time on his hands
Read Poem Staring at rain
Simple withstands
Time on his hands
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Song: “When that I was and a little tiny boy (With hey, ho, the wind and the rain)” by William Shakespeare
![William Shakespeare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LIshk0OYoGQiQRlFsX56zUPHjrJnY4whjKyDurmB.jpeg)
(from Twelfth Night) When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Read Poem With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
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The Soul of Spain With McAlmon and Bird the Publishers by Ernest M. Hemingway
![Ernest M. Hemingway](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_FfScvWfgUtJ80hq69r80J6rCRyAnB9JjuoP1wNAs.jpeg)
In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain.
Does it rain in Spain?
Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights.
The dancers dance in long white pants
It isn’t right to yence your aunts
Come Uncle, let’s go home.
Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is.
Come let us fart in the home.
There is no art in a fart.
Still a fart may not be artless.
Let us fart an artless fart in the home.
Democracy.
Democracy.
Bill says democracy must go.
Go democracy.
Read Poem Does it rain in Spain?
Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights.
The dancers dance in long white pants
It isn’t right to yence your aunts
Come Uncle, let’s go home.
Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is.
Come let us fart in the home.
There is no art in a fart.
Still a fart may not be artless.
Let us fart an artless fart in the home.
Democracy.
Democracy.
Bill says democracy must go.
Go democracy.
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Speculation by Ruth Stone
![Ruth Stone](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_uauZPYEVXWoyK61bFaO78QmtAZmXea0Fe9TD9ub6.jpeg)
In the coolness here I care
Not for the down-pressed noises overhead,
I hear in my pearly bone the wear
Of marble under the rain; nothing is truly dead,
There is only the wearing away,
The changing of means. Nor eyes I have
To tell how in the summer the mourning dove
Rocks on the hemlock’s arm, nor ears to rend
Read Poem Not for the down-pressed noises overhead,
I hear in my pearly bone the wear
Of marble under the rain; nothing is truly dead,
There is only the wearing away,
The changing of means. Nor eyes I have
To tell how in the summer the mourning dove
Rocks on the hemlock’s arm, nor ears to rend
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Squall by Stanley Moss
![Stanley Moss](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_VZfsChEkHR1tC7BNHjya6B6jcBLWVcGuDcANk2i7.jpeg)
I have not used my darkness well,
nor the Baroque arm that hangs from my shoulder,
nor the Baroque arm of my chair.
The rain moves out in a dark schedule.
Let the wind marry. I know the creation
continues through love. The rain’s a wife.
I cannot sleep or lie awake. Looking
at the dead I turn back, fling
Read Poem nor the Baroque arm that hangs from my shoulder,
nor the Baroque arm of my chair.
The rain moves out in a dark schedule.
Let the wind marry. I know the creation
continues through love. The rain’s a wife.
I cannot sleep or lie awake. Looking
at the dead I turn back, fling
0
The Best Game the Fairies Play by Rose Fyleman
![Rose Fyleman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
The best game the fairies play,
The best game of all,
Is sliding down steeples—
(You know they’re very tall).
You fly to the weathercock,
And when you hear it crow,
You fold your wings and clutch your things
And then let go!
Read Poem The best game of all,
Is sliding down steeples—
(You know they’re very tall).
You fly to the weathercock,
And when you hear it crow,
You fold your wings and clutch your things
And then let go!
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The Circuit Judge by Edgar Lee Masters
![Edgar Lee Masters](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_oUx5deZBOXp6I8xLr4pnrFl5kvZUQ1wpLeJoYiR7.jpeg)
Take note, passers-by, of the sharp erosions
Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain i
Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred
Were marking scores against me,
But to destroy, and not preserve, my memory.
I in life was the Circuit Judge, a maker of notches,
Deciding cases on the points the lawyers scored,
Not on the right of the matter.
O wind and rain, leave my head-stone alone!
For worse than the anger of the wronged,
The curses of the poor,
Was to lie speechless, yet with vision clear,
Seeing that even Hod Putt, the murderer,
Hanged by my sentence,
Was innocent in soul compared with me.
Read Poem Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain i
Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred
Were marking scores against me,
But to destroy, and not preserve, my memory.
I in life was the Circuit Judge, a maker of notches,
Deciding cases on the points the lawyers scored,
Not on the right of the matter.
O wind and rain, leave my head-stone alone!
For worse than the anger of the wronged,
The curses of the poor,
Was to lie speechless, yet with vision clear,
Seeing that even Hod Putt, the murderer,
Hanged by my sentence,
Was innocent in soul compared with me.
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The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
![Henry Wadsworth Longfellow](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_PvLXHDKfJsqAY4IZ4JTlr65nbTnuRIrcOj71nQoQ.jpeg)
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Read Poem Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
0
Easter Week by Joyce Kilmer
![Joyce Kilmer](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Xby7rt95jWn6XzkpPjEUVRUatP32m6miTnf3SZIE.jpeg)
(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)
("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.")
William Butler Yeats.
Read Poem ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.")
William Butler Yeats.
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I Shall not Care by Sara Teasdale
![Sara Teasdale](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_wppD0jYKwDMvCOrftlBETNUgIC1woLLRFJXqFI0I.jpeg)
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Read Poem Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
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In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 7 by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
![Alfred, Lord Tennyson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_yFq4gHV5lwFOryeQjrkj818WfvusALzybK4qWfvR.jpeg)
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
Read Poem Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
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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.
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Sir Humphrey Gilbert by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
![Henry Wadsworth Longfellow](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_PvLXHDKfJsqAY4IZ4JTlr65nbTnuRIrcOj71nQoQ.jpeg)
Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.
Read Poem Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.
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Sorrow by Edna St. Vincent Millay
![Edna St. Vincent Millay](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_syNdFhxJU0IoEbxTCewZpQbrX1tGZQ2kE4hc2Gzx.jpeg)
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, —
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
Read Poem Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain, —
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
0
Storm Windows by Howard Nemerov
![Howard Nemerov](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_s6zOIJws3pZ6cNNpylJv7EWcupQKiDU5AVi96OkJ.jpeg)
People are putting up storm windows now,
Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain
Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon,
I saw storm windows lying on the ground,
Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass
I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream
Away in lines like seaweed on the tide
Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.
Read Poem Or were, this morning, until the heavy rain
Drove them indoors. So, coming home at noon,
I saw storm windows lying on the ground,
Frame-full of rain; through the water and glass
I saw the crushed grass, how it seemed to stream
Away in lines like seaweed on the tide
Or blades of wheat leaning under the wind.
0
They Will Say by Carl Sandburg
![Carl Sandburg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xk3VAgf240a1ZC3vaMTDQNmxv9MRCZnvfqZbsmyE.jpeg)
OF my city the worst that men will ever say is this:
You took little children away from the sun and the dew,
And the glimmers that played in the grass under the great sky,
And the reckless rain; you put them between walls
To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages,
To eat dust in their throats and die empty-hearted
For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday nights.
Read Poem You took little children away from the sun and the dew,
And the glimmers that played in the grass under the great sky,
And the reckless rain; you put them between walls
To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages,
To eat dust in their throats and die empty-hearted
For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday nights.
0
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.
0
Wet-weather Talk by James Whitcomb Riley
![James Whitcomb Riley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ynzly5VHEhKUitX1hBmf3enVUkkgd7xIvLyPfQ37.jpeg)
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents—
Although they're apt to grumble some—
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
Read Poem It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents—
Although they're apt to grumble some—
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
0