Robinson Jeffers

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

Robinson Jeffers Poems

41. Hurt Hawks 1/13/2003
42. Inscription For A Gravestone 4/12/2010
43. Intellectuals 4/12/2010
44. Iona: The Graves Of The Kings 4/12/2010
45. Joy 4/12/2010
46. July Fourth By The Ocean 1/13/2003
47. Let Them Alone 1/13/2003
48. Life From The Lifeless 4/12/2010
49. Love The Wild Swan 1/13/2003
50. Margrave 4/12/2010
51. Meditation On Saviors 1/13/2003
52. Mountain Pines 2/7/2015
53. Natural Music 4/12/2010
54. New Mexican Mountain 4/12/2010
55. New Year’s Eve 4/12/2010
56. Night 4/12/2010
57. Night Without Sleep 4/12/2010
58. No Resurrection 4/12/2010
59. November Surf 4/12/2010
60. Now Returned Home 4/12/2010
61. On Building With Stone 1/13/2003
62. Original Sin 4/12/2010
63. Ossian’s Grave 4/12/2010
64. People And A Heron 4/12/2010
65. Phenomena 4/12/2010
66. Post Mortem 4/12/2010
67. Praise Life 4/12/2010
68. Promise Of Peace 1/13/2003
69. Quia Absurdum 4/12/2010
70. Rearmament 4/12/2010
71. Return 1/13/2003
72. Roan Stallion 4/12/2010
73. Rock And Hawk 1/13/2003
74. Salmon-Fishing 4/12/2010
75. Science 4/12/2010
76. Second-Best 4/12/2010
77. Self-Criticism In February 4/12/2010
78. Shakespeare’s Grave 4/12/2010
79. Shane O’neill’s Cairn 4/12/2010
80. Shine, Perishing Republic 1/13/2003
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?

[Report Error]