Robinson Jeffers

(10 January 1887 – 20 January 1962 / Allegheny, Pennsylvania)

Robinson Jeffers Poems

1. Mountain Pines 2/7/2015
2. Song Of Quietness 12/9/2014
3. To Helen About Her Hair 11/20/2014
4. Give Your Heart To The Hawks 6/29/2012
5. The Loving Shepherdess 4/12/2010
6. Steelhead 4/12/2010
7. New Mexican Mountain 4/12/2010
8. Thurso’s Landing 4/12/2010
9. Tamar 4/12/2010
10. The Giant’s Ring 4/12/2010
11. Shane O’neill’s Cairn 4/12/2010
12. Theory Of Truth 4/12/2010
13. The Tower Beyond Tragedy 4/12/2010
14. The Truce And The Peace 4/12/2010
15. Quia Absurdum 4/12/2010
16. New Year’s Eve 4/12/2010
17. The Wind-Struck Music 4/12/2010
18. Thebaid 4/12/2010
19. Hooded Night 4/12/2010
20. From The Women At Point Sur 4/12/2010
21. The Cruel Falcon 4/12/2010
22. The Dead To Clemenceau: 4/12/2010
23. Soliloquy 4/12/2010
24. Shooting Season 4/12/2010
25. Give Your Wish Light 4/12/2010
26. Flight Of Swans 4/12/2010
27. The Broadstone 4/12/2010
28. Second-Best 4/12/2010
29. Margrave 4/12/2010
30. The Place For No Story 4/12/2010
31. Iona: The Graves Of The Kings 4/12/2010
32. To The House 4/12/2010
33. Now Returned Home 4/12/2010
34. Subjected Earth 4/12/2010
35. The Bloody Sire 4/12/2010
36. The Low Sky 4/12/2010
37. To The Rock That Will Be A Cornerstone Of The House 4/12/2010
38. Ossian’s Grave 4/12/2010
39. The Songs Of The Dead Men To The Three Dancers 4/12/2010
40. Granite And Cypress 4/12/2010
Best Poem of Robinson Jeffers

Vulture

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-
feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time
here.
These old bones will still work; ...

Read the full of Vulture

On Building With Stone

To be an ape in little of the mountain-making mother
Like swarthy Cheops, but my own hands
For only slaves, is a far sweeter toil than to cut
Passions in verse for a sick people.
I'd liefer bed one boulder in the house-wall than be the time's
Archilochus: we name not Homer: who now
Can even imagine the fabulous dawn when bay-leaves (to a blind
Beggar) were not bitter in the teeth?

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