Below by Harriet Beecher Stowe
![Harriet Beecher Stowe](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_f3m8NK7tmp9C5SZ5RBpeoTDDWqYBIr3ipBMwMoBx.jpeg)
Loudly sweep the winds of autumn
O'er that lone, beloved grave,
Where we laid those sunny ringlets,
When those blue eyes set like stars,
Leaving us to outer darkness.
O the longing and the aching!
O the sere deserted grave!
Let the grass turn brown upon thee,
Read Poem O'er that lone, beloved grave,
Where we laid those sunny ringlets,
When those blue eyes set like stars,
Leaving us to outer darkness.
O the longing and the aching!
O the sere deserted grave!
Let the grass turn brown upon thee,
0
Invective Against Swans by Wallace Stevens
![Wallace Stevens](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tu2O8WYSpbyhbVKKBpUeN1XXCx9mM84Am5LIatPu.jpeg)
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
Read Poem And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
0
To Sheila Lanyon, on the Flyleaf of a Book by W. S. Graham
![W. S. Graham](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_sD3lB9RwbaKIvELTlPUfGKZtCbBpKMs8YIlC2Aor.jpeg)
Sheila, we speak here on the fly
Leaf of a book which was myself
A good few graves ago.
Now I am maintained by other
Words for better or for worse
To whisper my hello.
The seasons turn. Threshold on thresh
Hold forms continually and falls
Read Poem Leaf of a book which was myself
A good few graves ago.
Now I am maintained by other
Words for better or for worse
To whisper my hello.
The seasons turn. Threshold on thresh
Hold forms continually and falls
0
The Death of the Bee by Linda Pastan
![Linda Pastan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0qcgluU42GokPQOtwkhj1JVixU0uUKZrfxFqa4M4.jpeg)
The biography of the bee
is written in honey
and is drawing
to a close.
Soon the buzzing
plainchant of summer
will be silenced
for good;
Read Poem is written in honey
and is drawing
to a close.
Soon the buzzing
plainchant of summer
will be silenced
for good;
0
Wild Bees by James K. Baxter
![James K. Baxter](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xgQhA7remSEacpgUYiKOiksFBnbhCqb9GB1f9qQ4.jpeg)
Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing,
Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting
In a rented boat — I had seen them come and go,
Those wild bees swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter
In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice
Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low.
But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening
Of ripe January, my friends and I
Read Poem Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting
In a rented boat — I had seen them come and go,
Those wild bees swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter
In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice
Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low.
But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening
Of ripe January, my friends and I
0
Prothalamium by Julia Randall
![Julia Randall](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
The sensual sap ascends
to summer us, and all
fronds, greenwoods, lily bands
attend our festival.
A festival I had
more chaste and regular
when with the greening globe
I seasonally bore
Read Poem to summer us, and all
fronds, greenwoods, lily bands
attend our festival.
A festival I had
more chaste and regular
when with the greening globe
I seasonally bore
0
The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm by Wallace Stevens
![Wallace Stevens](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_tu2O8WYSpbyhbVKKBpUeN1XXCx9mM84Am5LIatPu.jpeg)
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
Read Poem The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
0
After the War by May Wedderburn Cannan
![May Wedderburn Cannan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Lz45wczIzELbtvMIcxole06C8A0Rp1ZejlsLU7UE.jpeg)
After the war perhaps I'll sit again
Out on the terrace where I sat with you,
And see the changeless sky and hills beat blue
And live an afternoon of summer through.
I shall remember then, and sad at heart
For the lost day of happiness we knew,
Wish only that some other man were you
And spoke my name as once you used to do.
Read Poem Out on the terrace where I sat with you,
And see the changeless sky and hills beat blue
And live an afternoon of summer through.
I shall remember then, and sad at heart
For the lost day of happiness we knew,
Wish only that some other man were you
And spoke my name as once you used to do.
0
The Combe by Edward Thomas
![Edward Thomas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rWaJjxq46Z7DXOmN6nYTVRdqSvDne350lrRSwRG0.jpeg)
The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
Read Poem Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
0
On Receiving News of the War by Isaac Rosenberg
![Isaac Rosenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ADDffcTLpP73MILQOOc9iqAzZYQWzcxnmpSzJlPA.jpeg)
Snow is a strange white word;
No ice or frost
Have asked of bud or bird
For Winter's cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know,
No man knows why.
Read Poem No ice or frost
Have asked of bud or bird
For Winter's cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know,
No man knows why.
0
Bleecker Street, Summer by Derek Walcott
![Derek Walcott](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LxPKrVfuwSlzCOW37UWNbKty0kqbgkG51RCpM3zG.jpeg)
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!
When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
Read Poem for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!
When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
0
Years by Alicia Ostriker
![Alicia Ostriker](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_gofrgABaMZAFMGnN8obIeeoZGoYHklesIQV84gYg.jpeg)
—for J.P.O. I have wished you dead and myself dead,
How could it be otherwise.
Read Poem How could it be otherwise.
0
From "The First, at the Last" by Marie Ponsot
![Marie Ponsot](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ozV4PDGTPFtpwtKMDdukEFy0QjV0JxXOsgbzSbv8.jpeg)
All he undertook
goes under, under
the undergrowth he rose from
fly-boy, lovely
in his day.
All his clothes
— spruce suit & tie —
are underclothes
against ungrounded gray.
All his studies understudy
an unstudied play.
Under the under
of what I remember
we are both twenty
Read Poem goes under, under
the undergrowth he rose from
fly-boy, lovely
in his day.
All his clothes
— spruce suit & tie —
are underclothes
against ungrounded gray.
All his studies understudy
an unstudied play.
Under the under
of what I remember
we are both twenty
0
Conduct by Samuel Greenberg
![Samuel Greenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_XHfb7rTpXFS1Q2VeEcn8S5EkDCXRxrFP3SmtqErV.jpeg)
By a peninsula the painter sat and
Sketched the uneven valley groves.
The apostle gave alms to the
Meek. The volcano burst
In fusive sulphur and hurled
Rocks and ore into the air—
Heaven’s sudden change at
The drawing tempestuous,
Darkening shade of dense clouded hues.
The wanderer soon chose
His spot of rest; they bore the
Chosen hero upon their shoulders,
Whom they strangely admired, as
The beach-tide summer of people desired.
Read Poem Sketched the uneven valley groves.
The apostle gave alms to the
Meek. The volcano burst
In fusive sulphur and hurled
Rocks and ore into the air—
Heaven’s sudden change at
The drawing tempestuous,
Darkening shade of dense clouded hues.
The wanderer soon chose
His spot of rest; they bore the
Chosen hero upon their shoulders,
Whom they strangely admired, as
The beach-tide summer of people desired.
0
Charleston by Henry Timrod
![Henry Timrod](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_aSGVUCHCo3MOL2HR7q43dyIkCTkyOfnY4t8hcvQY.jpeg)
Calm as that second summer which precedes
The first fall of the snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
The City bides the foe.
As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,
Her bolted thunders sleep—
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
Looms o’er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar
To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war
Above the level sand.
Read Poem The first fall of the snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
The City bides the foe.
As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,
Her bolted thunders sleep—
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
Looms o’er the solemn deep.
No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar
To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war
Above the level sand.
0
What Next by Frederick Seidel
![Frederick Seidel](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_VKqYshQSKTPhstKuh4ry3xVBnhCUJcc43GEgWIH0.jpeg)
So the sun is shining blindingly but I can sort of see.
It’s like looking at Mandela’s moral beauty.
The dying leaves are sizzling on the trees
In a shirtsleeves summer breeze.
But daylight saving is over.
And gaveling the courtroom to order with a four-leaf clover
Is over. And it’s altogether November.
And the Pellegrino bubbles rise to the surface and dismember.
Read Poem It’s like looking at Mandela’s moral beauty.
The dying leaves are sizzling on the trees
In a shirtsleeves summer breeze.
But daylight saving is over.
And gaveling the courtroom to order with a four-leaf clover
Is over. And it’s altogether November.
And the Pellegrino bubbles rise to the surface and dismember.
0
From a Window by Charlotte Mew
![Charlotte Mew](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_kuV7c7OaquYLKp2bGxiuTW28ZrmEicGVc9qRqckF.jpeg)
Up here, with June, the sycamore throws
Across the window a whispering screen;
I shall miss the sycamore more, I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
But I mean to go through the door without fear,
Not caring much what happens here
When I’m away:—
How green the screen is across the panes
Read Poem Across the window a whispering screen;
I shall miss the sycamore more, I suppose,
Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.
But I mean to go through the door without fear,
Not caring much what happens here
When I’m away:—
How green the screen is across the panes
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;
0
Last Hope by Paul Verlaine
![Paul Verlaine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_RapYoNcWyWNJbpQmA4recMOpzaU5gxe1DhBfalF7.jpeg)
Beside a humble stone, a tree
Floats in the cemetery’s air,
Not planted in memoriam there,
But growing wild, uncultured, free.
Read Poem Floats in the cemetery’s air,
Not planted in memoriam there,
But growing wild, uncultured, free.
0
The Fountain by Charles Baudelaire
![Charles Baudelaire](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Ajl7HzALkr4rehrXtUwC2ToH0kCiXwWOgfXhkVQ3.jpeg)
My dear, your eyes are weary;
Rest them a little while.
Assume the languid posture
Of pleasure mixed with guile.
Outside the talkative fountain
Continues night and day
Repeating my warm passion
In whatever it has to say.
The sheer luminous gown
The fountain wears
Where Phoebe’s very own
Color appears
Falls like a summer rain
Or shawl of tears.
Read Poem Rest them a little while.
Assume the languid posture
Of pleasure mixed with guile.
Outside the talkative fountain
Continues night and day
Repeating my warm passion
In whatever it has to say.
The sheer luminous gown
The fountain wears
Where Phoebe’s very own
Color appears
Falls like a summer rain
Or shawl of tears.
2
Mathematics Considered as a Vice by Anthony Hecht
![Anthony Hecht](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_JYoEY5BxPQCbrkSYCqeq38beRfn6ozjn33NCVwEs.jpeg)
I would invoke that man
Who chipped for all posterity an ass
(The one that Jesus rode)
Out of hard stone, and set its either wing
Among the wings of the most saintly clan
On Chartres Cathedral, and that it might sing
The praise to all who pass
Of its unearthly load,
Hung from its neck a harp-like instrument.
I would invoke that man
To aid my argument.
The ass smiles on us all,
Being astonished that an ass might rise
To such sure eminence
Read Poem Who chipped for all posterity an ass
(The one that Jesus rode)
Out of hard stone, and set its either wing
Among the wings of the most saintly clan
On Chartres Cathedral, and that it might sing
The praise to all who pass
Of its unearthly load,
Hung from its neck a harp-like instrument.
I would invoke that man
To aid my argument.
The ass smiles on us all,
Being astonished that an ass might rise
To such sure eminence
0
Kora in Hell: Improvisations XXVII by William Carlos Williams
![William Carlos Williams](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Pgis0pzavEuiiZmaekKbaaB3xwAybOrgrym29D4I.jpeg)
XXVII
1
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pencil sharpened at one end, dwarfs the imagination, makes logic a butterfly, offers a finality that sends us spinning through space, a fixity the mind could climb forever, a revolving mountain, a complexity with a surface of glass; the gist of poetry. D.C. al fin.
2
There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose-red grasses and you—in your apron running to catch—say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that puts wings to your heels, at your knees.
3
Sooner or later as with the leaves forgotten the swinging branch long since and summer: they scurry before a wind on the frost-baked ground—have no place to rest—somehow invoke a burst of warm days not of the past nothing decayed: crisp summer!—neither a copse for resurrected frost eaters but a summer removed undestroyed a summer of dried leaves scurrying with a screech, to and fro in the half dark—twittering, chattering, scraping. Hagh!
________________
Seeing the leaves dropping from the high and low branches the thought rise: this day of all others is the one chosen, all other days fall away from it on either side and only itself remains in perfect fullness. It is its own summer, of its leaves as they scrape on the smooth ground it must build its perfection. The gross summer of the year is only a halting counterpart of those fiery days of secret triumph which in reality themselves paint the year as if upon a parchment, giving each season a mockery of the warmth or frozenness which is within ourselves. The true seasons blossom or wilt not in fixed order but so that many of them may pass in a few weeks or hours whereas sometimes a whole life passes and the season remains of a piece from one end to the other.
Read Poem 1
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pencil sharpened at one end, dwarfs the imagination, makes logic a butterfly, offers a finality that sends us spinning through space, a fixity the mind could climb forever, a revolving mountain, a complexity with a surface of glass; the gist of poetry. D.C. al fin.
2
There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose-red grasses and you—in your apron running to catch—say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that puts wings to your heels, at your knees.
3
Sooner or later as with the leaves forgotten the swinging branch long since and summer: they scurry before a wind on the frost-baked ground—have no place to rest—somehow invoke a burst of warm days not of the past nothing decayed: crisp summer!—neither a copse for resurrected frost eaters but a summer removed undestroyed a summer of dried leaves scurrying with a screech, to and fro in the half dark—twittering, chattering, scraping. Hagh!
________________
Seeing the leaves dropping from the high and low branches the thought rise: this day of all others is the one chosen, all other days fall away from it on either side and only itself remains in perfect fullness. It is its own summer, of its leaves as they scrape on the smooth ground it must build its perfection. The gross summer of the year is only a halting counterpart of those fiery days of secret triumph which in reality themselves paint the year as if upon a parchment, giving each season a mockery of the warmth or frozenness which is within ourselves. The true seasons blossom or wilt not in fixed order but so that many of them may pass in a few weeks or hours whereas sometimes a whole life passes and the season remains of a piece from one end to the other.
0
Song at Drumholm by John Unterecker
![John Unterecker](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
My liveliest self, I give you fair leave
in these windblown weathers,
heather-hearted and human and strange,
to turn every blackberry corner
of yesterday’s summer.
The robin, singing her love-me-forever,
kiss-catch-clutch-in the heather
blues, sings tide flow
Read Poem in these windblown weathers,
heather-hearted and human and strange,
to turn every blackberry corner
of yesterday’s summer.
The robin, singing her love-me-forever,
kiss-catch-clutch-in the heather
blues, sings tide flow
0
Joy in the Woods by Claude McKay
![Claude McKay](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0KA4AF6wkS9S4zHMB08ZVn2JrVNUYlZ6sXUNIFFf.jpeg)
There is joy in the woods just now,
The leaves are whispers of song,
And the birds make mirth on the bough
And music the whole day long,
And God! to dwell in the town
In these springlike summer days,
On my brow an unfading frown
And hate in my heart always—
Read Poem The leaves are whispers of song,
And the birds make mirth on the bough
And music the whole day long,
And God! to dwell in the town
In these springlike summer days,
On my brow an unfading frown
And hate in my heart always—
0
After the Winter by Claude McKay
![Claude McKay](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0KA4AF6wkS9S4zHMB08ZVn2JrVNUYlZ6sXUNIFFf.jpeg)
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.
Read Poem And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.
0
Psychoanalysis: An Elegy by Jack Spicer
![Jack Spicer](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_1hDg2pRJx7ryyfDp4RdGHDHn0GtSlTPMAgGCn6Wg.jpeg)
What are you thinking about?
I am thinking of an early summer.
I am thinking of wet hills in the rain
Pouring water. Shedding it
Down empty acres of oak and manzanita
Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun,
Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard.
Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana
Read Poem I am thinking of an early summer.
I am thinking of wet hills in the rain
Pouring water. Shedding it
Down empty acres of oak and manzanita
Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun,
Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard.
Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana
0
Song: “Where the bee sucks, there suck I” by William Shakespeare
![William Shakespeare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_LIshk0OYoGQiQRlFsX56zUPHjrJnY4whjKyDurmB.jpeg)
(fromThe Tempest) Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
Read Poem In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
0
Wanting Sumptuous Heavens by Robert Bly
![Robert Bly](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ZrBWTLDyCTzj0S0C0DCmm1UdP2n7sBO9bQsnD8xp.jpeg)
No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.
Read Poem And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.
0
The Birds by Linda Pastan
![Linda Pastan](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_0qcgluU42GokPQOtwkhj1JVixU0uUKZrfxFqa4M4.jpeg)
are heading south, pulled
by a compass in the genes.
They are not fooled
by this odd November summer,
though we stand in our doorways
wearing cotton dresses.
We are watching them
as they swoop and gather—
Read Poem by a compass in the genes.
They are not fooled
by this odd November summer,
though we stand in our doorways
wearing cotton dresses.
We are watching them
as they swoop and gather—
0
Above Pate Valley by Gary Snyder
![Gary Snyder](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_5n5yg85vZo1yHb84DsatAJ8QhtA53o8Ga5KwpCp6.jpeg)
We finished clearing the last
Section of trail by noon,
High on the ridge-side
Two thousand feet above the creek
Reached the pass, went on
Beyond the white pine groves,
Granite shoulders, to a small
Green meadow watered by the snow,
Read Poem Section of trail by noon,
High on the ridge-side
Two thousand feet above the creek
Reached the pass, went on
Beyond the white pine groves,
Granite shoulders, to a small
Green meadow watered by the snow,
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
0
A Dirge by Christina Rossetti
![Christina Rossetti](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rCIGbd5dYNgOCuj2OqH7pLxBRR7fZ3gzxgYfJ25D.jpeg)
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling,
Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
For their far off flying
From summer dying.
Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
Read Poem You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling,
Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
For their far off flying
From summer dying.
Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
0
Fable of the Ant and the Word by Mary Barnard
![Mary Barnard](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_fxt3UtuKdrrXu9r0rDGDPYfNKpWr5cQ5esgqAb4f.jpeg)
Ink-black, but moving independently
across the black and white parquet of print,
the ant cancels the author out. The page,
translated to itself, bears hair-like legs
disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber.
These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning,
destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence
laying waste all languages, until, thinly,
Read Poem across the black and white parquet of print,
the ant cancels the author out. The page,
translated to itself, bears hair-like legs
disturbing the fine hairs of its fiber.
These are the feet of summer, pillaging meaning,
destroying Alexandria. Sunlight is silence
laying waste all languages, until, thinly,
0
Glazunoviana by John Ashbery
![John Ashbery](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_PfVCerLUSulSMEaDj89iwWb6APVaxD4Sjn7ajD8f.jpeg)
The man with the red hat
And the polar bear, is he here too?
The window giving on shade,
Is that here too?
And all the little helps,
My initials in the sky,
The hay of an arctic summer night?
The bear
Read Poem And the polar bear, is he here too?
The window giving on shade,
Is that here too?
And all the little helps,
My initials in the sky,
The hay of an arctic summer night?
The bear
0
I Hear a River thro’ the Valley Wander by Trumbull Stickney
![Trumbull Stickney](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_XBO0sp2C3TEkK86BivtyFtYI8RwtIo5KUYX7Bvmj.jpeg)
I hear a river thro’ the valley wander
Whose water runs, the song alone remaining.
A rainbow stands and summer passes under.
Read Poem Whose water runs, the song alone remaining.
A rainbow stands and summer passes under.
0
Kneeling by R. S. Thomas
![R. S. Thomas](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Doijd5EPEsUPdE9YAlMm8vZqV3cfr6K2WrY0PdgT.jpeg)
Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great rôle. And the audiences
Read Poem Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great rôle. And the audiences
0
The Long Voyage by Malcolm Cowley
![Malcolm Cowley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Zv2Jq9igJUnfJbsKCGPD4UNs8hfR9AFZNQRo1rLZ.jpeg)
Not that the pines were darker there,
nor mid-May dogwood brighter there,
nor swifts more swift in summer air;
it was my own country,
having its thunderclap of spring,
its long midsummer ripening,
its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting,
almost like any country,
Read Poem nor mid-May dogwood brighter there,
nor swifts more swift in summer air;
it was my own country,
having its thunderclap of spring,
its long midsummer ripening,
its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting,
almost like any country,
0
Love and Friendship by Emily Brontë
![Emily Brontë](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_OcyS9VFFH3QJmsqUacf6oI0QU0QfTgzarzBF5nxZ.jpeg)
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
Read Poem Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
0
Need by Babette Deutsch
![Babette Deutsch](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_wAXzUqccza0bq4NhaB2kMGlJOhYJBgy0A6Qj6LYV.jpeg)
What do we need for love—a midnight fire
Flinging itself by fistfuls up the chimney
In soft bright snatches? Do we need the snow,
Gentle as silence, covering the scars
Of weeks of hunger, years of shabby having?
Summer or winter? A heaven of stars? A room?
The smiling mouth, the sadness of desire
Are everywhere the same. If lovers go
Read Poem Flinging itself by fistfuls up the chimney
In soft bright snatches? Do we need the snow,
Gentle as silence, covering the scars
Of weeks of hunger, years of shabby having?
Summer or winter? A heaven of stars? A room?
The smiling mouth, the sadness of desire
Are everywhere the same. If lovers go
0
Photograph of a Gathering of People Waving by Clarence Major
![Clarence Major](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_pRgkiPTOcH0CZqqBSapd5e8DLBzuOBTzHYzNYUVh.jpeg)
based on an old photograph bought in a
shop at Half Moon Bay, summer, 1999 No sound, the whole thing.
Unknown folk. People waving from a hillside of ripple grass
Read Poem shop at Half Moon Bay, summer, 1999 No sound, the whole thing.
Unknown folk. People waving from a hillside of ripple grass
0
The River at Wolf by Jean Valentine
![Jean Valentine](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_82JxGKPehlr3KdvKdRgQDOS7O16TwodCvtmqhxDu.jpeg)
Coming east we left the animals
pelican beaver osprey muskrat and snake
their hair and skin and feathers
their eyes in the dark: red and green.
Your finger drawing my mouth.
Blessed are they who remember
that what they now have they once longed for.
A day a year ago last summer
Read Poem pelican beaver osprey muskrat and snake
their hair and skin and feathers
their eyes in the dark: red and green.
Your finger drawing my mouth.
Blessed are they who remember
that what they now have they once longed for.
A day a year ago last summer
0
Through these Pale Cold Days by Isaac Rosenberg
![Isaac Rosenberg](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_ADDffcTLpP73MILQOOc9iqAzZYQWzcxnmpSzJlPA.jpeg)
Through these pale cold days
What dark faces burn
Out of three thousand years,
And their wild eyes yearn,
While underneath their brows
Like waifs their spirits grope
For the pools of Hebron again—
For Lebanon's summer slope.
They leave these blond still days
In dust behind their tread
They see with living eyes
How long they have been dead.
Read Poem What dark faces burn
Out of three thousand years,
And their wild eyes yearn,
While underneath their brows
Like waifs their spirits grope
For the pools of Hebron again—
For Lebanon's summer slope.
They leave these blond still days
In dust behind their tread
They see with living eyes
How long they have been dead.
0
In Memoriam, July 19, 1914 by Anna Akhmatova
![Anna Akhmatova](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_PMeqHQBmx7TyOelIoNh2P87EQaQ8KAo9juG3n8NG.jpeg)
We aged a hundred years and this descended
In just one hour, as at a stroke.
The summer had been brief and now was ended;
The body of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.
The hushed road burst in colors then, a soaring
Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.
And so I covered up my face, imploring
God to destroy me before battle fell.
Read Poem In just one hour, as at a stroke.
The summer had been brief and now was ended;
The body of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.
The hushed road burst in colors then, a soaring
Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.
And so I covered up my face, imploring
God to destroy me before battle fell.
0
Afterimages by Audre Lorde
![Audre Lorde](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_Mucm2fiEV5KhSB2HtZMj4ei3pQWw2UuK3eIpiYPr.jpeg)
I
However the image enters
its force remains within
my eyes
rockstrewn caves where dragonfish evolve
wild for life, relentless and acquisitive
learning to survive
0
Aftermath by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
![Henry Wadsworth Longfellow](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_PvLXHDKfJsqAY4IZ4JTlr65nbTnuRIrcOj71nQoQ.jpeg)
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Read Poem When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
0
Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson
![Robert Louis Stevenson](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_La86Mz4f5C4XWqMwgk5FlBjWEpmnt0GiQ7HhCVDn.jpeg)
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Read Poem And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
0
Beyond the Red River by Thomas McGrath
![Thomas McGrath](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xkC8A6inXmlG14DOyJIeFm5OJzK576H9N0Rr9WHp.jpeg)
The birds have flown their summer skies to the south,
And the flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.
A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs, sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.
Read Poem And the flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.
A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs, sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.
0
Color by Christina Rossetti
![Christina Rossetti](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rCIGbd5dYNgOCuj2OqH7pLxBRR7fZ3gzxgYfJ25D.jpeg)
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Read Poem By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
0
Courtesy by David Ferry
![David Ferry](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_YLLuhfX4uGX8roswLOlgXQwp133xSeUs9AaZpZQk.jpeg)
It is an afternoon toward the end of August:
Autumnal weather, cool following on,
And riding in, after the heat of summer,
Into the empty afternoon shade and light,
The shade full of light without any thickness at all;
You can see right through and right down into the depth
Of the light and shade of the afternoon; there isn’t
Any weight of the summer pressing down.
Read Poem Autumnal weather, cool following on,
And riding in, after the heat of summer,
Into the empty afternoon shade and light,
The shade full of light without any thickness at all;
You can see right through and right down into the depth
Of the light and shade of the afternoon; there isn’t
Any weight of the summer pressing down.
0
A Daughter of Eve by Christina Rossetti
![Christina Rossetti](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rCIGbd5dYNgOCuj2OqH7pLxBRR7fZ3gzxgYfJ25D.jpeg)
A fool I was to sleep at noon,
And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept;
Faded and all-forsaken,
Read Poem And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept;
Faded and all-forsaken,
0
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
Hendecasyllabics by Algernon Charles Swinburne
![Algernon Charles Swinburne](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_38rFkYyNxR01q6riU2YEJyp1ZpG6JbvckuEFXL1B.jpeg)
In the month of the long decline of roses
I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent,
Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions
Half divided the eyelids of the sunset;
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters
Moving tremulous under feet of angels
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens;
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage,
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow;
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels,
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight,
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel,
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not,
Read Poem I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent,
Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions
Half divided the eyelids of the sunset;
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters
Moving tremulous under feet of angels
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens;
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage,
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow;
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels,
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight,
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel,
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not,
0
The Human Seasons by John Keats
![John Keats](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_2t7DQdJPYaaPthf2UGEp6bVKWLAfwAnNX56Uy3s2.jpeg)
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
0
I Hid my Love by John Clare
![John Clare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_uokVDbQiRRjag9zxmIgvi2WohZum7pyit6LSju1H.jpeg)
I hid my love when young till I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light:
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
Read Poem Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light:
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
0
The Icehouse in Summer by Howard Nemerov
![Howard Nemerov](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_s6zOIJws3pZ6cNNpylJv7EWcupQKiDU5AVi96OkJ.jpeg)
see Amos, 3:15 A door sunk in a hillside, with a bolt
thick as the boy’s arm, and behind that door
Read Poem thick as the boy’s arm, and behind that door
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
Influence of Natural Objects in Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth by William Wordsworth
![William Wordsworth](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_dc77Y4C4TW1uMEpA2Uy58EWxXIseXTLyLcouDoLJ.jpeg)
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
Read Poem Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
0
Itylus by Algernon Charles Swinburne
![Algernon Charles Swinburne](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_38rFkYyNxR01q6riU2YEJyp1ZpG6JbvckuEFXL1B.jpeg)
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Read Poem How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
0
The Knight's Tomb by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
![Samuel Taylor Coleridge](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_6fxj9dT3ypZ6Sizz74OJ4gPD38UfJCbfZr4GYbDs.jpeg)
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;—
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
0
A Lament by Percy Bysshe Shelley
![Percy Bysshe Shelley](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_xz2mtB1hGQeRQbUbkLdzIRFInaK0vAwFPCJAo4Tq.jpeg)
O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more—Oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Read Poem On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more—Oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
0
Penumbra by Amy Lowell
![Amy Lowell](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_wqu5yyRCnswRQrk71atZX2aIuzavE8Wp0xSMZOHd.jpeg)
As I sit here in the quiet Summer night,
Suddenly, from the distant road, there comes
The grind and rush of an electric car.
And, from still farther off,
An engine puffs sharply,
Followed by the drawn-out shunting scrape of a freight train.
These are the sounds that men make
In the long business of living.
Read Poem Suddenly, from the distant road, there comes
The grind and rush of an electric car.
And, from still farther off,
An engine puffs sharply,
Followed by the drawn-out shunting scrape of a freight train.
These are the sounds that men make
In the long business of living.
0
A Shropshire Lad 35: On the idle hill of summer by A. E. Housman
![A. E. Housman](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_40sbV0QwcyCeV4V3nmphLVUeaGhWxF3RYvmX1R5J.jpeg)
On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
Read Poem Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
0
Summer by John Clare
![John Clare](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_uokVDbQiRRjag9zxmIgvi2WohZum7pyit6LSju1H.jpeg)
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
Read Poem For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
0
To My Wife by J. V. Cunningham
![J. V. Cunningham](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
And does the heart grow old? You know
In the indiscriminate green
Of summer or in earliest snow
A landscape is another scene,
Inchoate and anonymous,
And every rock and bush and drift
As our affections alter us
Will alter with the season’s shift.
Read Poem In the indiscriminate green
Of summer or in earliest snow
A landscape is another scene,
Inchoate and anonymous,
And every rock and bush and drift
As our affections alter us
Will alter with the season’s shift.
0
Warm Summer Sun by Mark Twain
![Mark Twain](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_7uZFzODxBhIMbPiIkmuRqKarTNb0j4dTWvThExTs.jpeg)
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
0
The Wheel Revolves by Kenneth Rexroth
![Kenneth Rexroth](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_9qNrhQlUAXhGlwvbQUGt8Ixj0RJu85Yq3Q8IhlBx.jpeg)
You were a girl of satin and gauze
Now you are my mountain and waterfall companion.
Long ago I read those lines of Po Chu I
Written in his middle age.
Young as I was they touched me.
I never thought in my own middle age
I would have a beautiful young dancer
To wander with me by falling crystal waters,
Read Poem Now you are my mountain and waterfall companion.
Long ago I read those lines of Po Chu I
Written in his middle age.
Young as I was they touched me.
I never thought in my own middle age
I would have a beautiful young dancer
To wander with me by falling crystal waters,
0
The Wife by Marjorie Pickthall
![Marjorie Pickthall](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_poet-image.jpeg)
Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
I am so near
No whisper, falling light,
Divides us, dear.
Living, I had no claim
Read Poem To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
I am so near
No whisper, falling light,
Divides us, dear.
Living, I had no claim
0
Au Vieux Jardin by Richard Aldington
![Richard Aldington](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_rMwz8S8hLC5hwv5n2TFd3dP9zfCOJAcW5jyyGZVB.jpeg)
I have sat here happy in the gardens,
Watching the still pool and the reeds
And the dark clouds
Which the wind of the upper air
Tore like the green leafy boughs
Of the divers-hued trees of late summer;
But though I greatly delight
In these and the water-lilies,
That which sets me nighest to weeping
Is the rose and white color of the smooth flag-stones,
And the pale yellow grasses
Among them.
Read Poem Watching the still pool and the reeds
And the dark clouds
Which the wind of the upper air
Tore like the green leafy boughs
Of the divers-hued trees of late summer;
But though I greatly delight
In these and the water-lilies,
That which sets me nighest to weeping
Is the rose and white color of the smooth flag-stones,
And the pale yellow grasses
Among them.
0
To the Light of September by W. S. Merwin
![W. S. Merwin](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_BbeWKMxLGsW4JmxNPi7TDOlw19kUVrOrzWO0UsxK.jpeg)
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
Read Poem you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
0
Paths by John Montague
![John Montague](/storage/poets/resize/500x500_f9X6JeqN4JcYql8wpzsSceqxaeW0eCBXbGLuVm5d.jpeg)
We had two gardens.
A real flower garden
overhanging the road
(our miniature Babylon).
Paths which I helped
to lay with Aunt Winifred,
riprapped with pebbles;
shards of painted delph;
Read Poem A real flower garden
overhanging the road
(our miniature Babylon).
Paths which I helped
to lay with Aunt Winifred,
riprapped with pebbles;
shards of painted delph;
0