Some Poems

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Here are a few I like that you might enjoy:


For maximum enjoyment:
Stop. Take a breath or two. Without haste, read a poem. Pause. Maybe read it again. Wait a while before reading another (come back another day, even). A good poem is a lot like a good wine: worth savoring, problematic if taken in quantity too swiftly.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950).
God's World, from Renascence and Other Poems, 1917.
	O World, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart, -- Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me, -- let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Tavern, from Renascence and Other Poems, 1917.
	I'll keep a little tavern Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy -- But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago.
Lament
	Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I'll make you little jackets; I'll make you little trousers From his old pants. There'll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, And the dead be forgotten; Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
To Fight Aloud...
	To fight aloud, is very brave - But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe - Who win, and nations do not see - Who fall - and none observe - Whose dying eyes, no Country Regards with patriot love - We trust, in plumed procession For such, the Angels go - Rank after Rank, with even feet - And Uniforms of Snow.

William Shakespeare
Sonnett LXV, Number 65 of his deathless collection of Elizabethan pick-up lines.
	Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

William Blake (1757-1827)
To The Accuser Who Is God of This World
	Truly My Satan thou art but a Dunce And dost not know the Garment from the Man. Every Harlot was a Virgin once, Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan. Tho' thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine Of Jesus & Jehovah thou art still The Son of Morn in weary Night's decline; The lost Traveller's Dream under the Hill.

Maude Meehan (1920- )
Mothers and Daughters, from Washing the Stones, 1996
	There is a cord between us not yet cut On it we move like tightrope walkers novices uncertain of the net Take tentative steps across the gulf toward one another Careful not wishing to turn back Hopeful that keeping balance we can meet can then embrace and pass each other as we must

. . . and, however unworthily, a sonnet of mine:
Good, n.
	Those times in life I find myself adrift Without the aid of compass for my course, I find there comes to me, as by a gift, A silent inner voice whose cogent force Reveals to me how, hidden in my heart, Lie keys to what my future may yet hold, To those events that may or may not start Depending on which life I let unfold. For each of us, these paths before our eyes So fork, divide, diverge beyond our sight, That knowledge does not know where wisdom lies. Such stuff as hearts are made of sees the right, And whispers to our minds, if still we could, To choose between the clever and the good.

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