Robinson Jeffers

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

Robinson Jeffers Poems

81. Shine, Republic 4/12/2010
82. Shiva 1/13/2003
83. Shooting Season 4/12/2010
84. Sign-Post 1/13/2003
85. So Many Blood-Lakes 1/13/2003
86. Soliloquy 4/12/2010
87. Song Of Quietness 12/9/2014
88. Steelhead 4/12/2010
89. Still The Mind Smiles 4/12/2010
90. Subjected Earth 4/12/2010
91. Suicide's Stone 4/12/2010
92. Summer Holiday 1/13/2003
93. Tamar 4/12/2010
94. The Answer 1/13/2003
95. The Beaks Of Eagles 4/12/2010
96. The Bed By The Window 4/12/2010
97. The Bird With The Dark Plumes 1/13/2003
98. The Bloody Sire 4/12/2010
99. The Broadstone 4/12/2010
100. The Broken Balance 1/13/2003
101. The Caged Eagle’s Death Dream 4/12/2010
102. The Coast-Road 4/12/2010
103. The Cruel Falcon 4/12/2010
104. The Cycle 4/12/2010
105. The Day Is A Poem (September 19, 1939) 4/12/2010
106. The Dead To Clemenceau: 4/12/2010
107. The Deer Lay Down Their Bones 1/13/2003
108. The Epic Stars 1/13/2003
109. The Excesses Of God 1/13/2003
110. The Eye 1/13/2003
111. The Giant’s Ring 4/12/2010
112. The Great Explosion 1/13/2003
113. The Great Sunset 4/12/2010
114. The Loving Shepherdess 4/12/2010
115. The Low Sky 4/12/2010
116. The Machine 1/13/2003
117. The Maid's Thought 1/13/2003
118. The Old Man’s Dream After He Died 4/12/2010
119. The Place For No Story 4/12/2010
120. The Purse-Seine 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?

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