Robinson Jeffers

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

Robinson Jeffers Poems

1. A Little Scraping 4/12/2010
2. A Redeemer 4/12/2010
3. All The Little Hoofprints 4/12/2010
4. An Artist 4/12/2010
5. Ante Mortem 4/12/2010
6. Antrim 4/12/2010
7. Apology For Bad Dreams 4/12/2010
8. Ascent To The Sierras 1/13/2003
9. Ave Caesar 1/13/2003
10. Be Angry At The Sun 1/13/2003
11. Birds 4/12/2010
12. Birth-Dues 1/13/2003
13. Bixby's Landing 1/13/2003
14. Boats In A Fog 4/12/2010
15. Carmel Point 1/13/2003
16. Cassandra 4/12/2010
17. Contemplation Of The Sword 1/13/2003
18. Contrast 1/13/2003
19. De Rerum Virtute 4/12/2010
20. Decaying Lambskins 4/12/2010
21. Delusion Of Saints 4/12/2010
22. Distant Rainfall 4/12/2010
23. Divinely Superfluous Beauty 4/12/2010
24. End Of The World 4/12/2010
25. Evening Ebb 4/12/2010
26. Fawn's Foster-Mother 1/13/2003
27. Fire On The Hills 1/13/2003
28. Flight Of Swans 4/12/2010
29. Fog 4/12/2010
30. From The Women At Point Sur 4/12/2010
31. Ghosts In England 4/12/2010
32. Give Your Heart To The Hawks 6/29/2012
33. Give Your Wish Light 4/12/2010
34. Going To The Horse Flats 4/12/2010
35. Granite And Cypress 4/12/2010
36. Gray Weather 4/12/2010
37. Hands 4/12/2010
38. Hellenistics 4/12/2010
39. Hooded Night 4/12/2010
40. Hope Is Not For The Wise 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

The Eye

The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean,
The blue pool in the old garden,
More than five thousand years has drunk sacrifice
Of ships and blood, and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific--
Our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant.
Neither our present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs
Nor any future world-quarrel of westering
And eastering man, the bloody migrations, greed of power, clash of
faiths--

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