Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

The pledge of Friendship! it is still divine,
Though watery floods have quenched its burning wine;
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold,
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold,
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws
A garland sweeter than the banquet’s rose.
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl,
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon’s soul,
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave.
’T is the heart’s current lends the cup its glow,
Whate’er the fountain whence the draught may flow,—­
The diamond dew-drops sparkling through the sand,
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt hand,
Or the dark streamlet oozing from the snow,
Where creep and crouch the shuddering Esquimaux;
Ay, in the stream that, ere again we meet,
Shall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet,
And, stealing silent from its leafy hills,
Thread all our alleys with its thousand rills,—­
In each pale draught if generous feeling blend,
And o’er the goblet friend shall smile on friend,
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall warm,
And genial Nature still defy reform!
...

When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,

...

The birds sing softly, but their notes drift past.
The breeze whispers low, yet its touch doesn't last.
The sun casts its glow, but the warmth fades fast.
The world's beauty dims, in shadows cast.
Its absence leaves my heart overcast.

I'm loved by some, yet love's spark I miss.
I've laughed in moments, but found no bliss.
My dreams are treasures in a fragile chest,
But life feels broken, a faltering quest.

...

The pledge of Friendship! it is still divine,
Though watery floods have quenched its burning wine;
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold,
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold,
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws
A garland sweeter than the banquet’s rose.
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl,
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon’s soul,
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave.
’T is the heart’s current lends the cup its glow,
Whate’er the fountain whence the draught may flow,—­
The diamond dew-drops sparkling through the sand,
Scooped by the Arab in his sunburnt hand,
Or the dark streamlet oozing from the snow,
Where creep and crouch the shuddering Esquimaux;
Ay, in the stream that, ere again we meet,
Shall burst the pavement, glistening at our feet,
And, stealing silent from its leafy hills,
Thread all our alleys with its thousand rills,—­
In each pale draught if generous feeling blend,
And o’er the goblet friend shall smile on friend,
Even cold Cochituate every heart shall warm,
And genial Nature still defy reform!
...

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so long.
...

My fast Demon, you inspire me to write.
How I hate the way you swim and slither,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the deep zither.

Let me compare you to a sharp ember?
You are more shiny, judgemental and right.
Steep fogs hide the oceans of November,
And autumntime has the feathered alright.


...

Old Albion sat on a crag of late,
And sung out—'Ahoy! ahoy!
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate,
And this to my sailor boy!
Come over, come home,
Through the salt sea foam,
My sailor, my sailor boy.

'Here's a crown to be given away, I ween,
A crown for my sailor's head,
And all for the worth of a widowed queen,
And the love of the noble dead,
And the fear and fame
Of the island's name
Where my boy was born and bred.

'Content thee, content thee, let it alone,
Thou marked for a choice so rare;
Though treaties be treaties, never a throne
Was proffered for cause as fair.
Yet come to me home,
Through the salt sea foam,
For the Greek must ask elsewhere.

' 'T is pity, my sailor, but who can tell?
Many lands they look to me;
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well,
But that's as hereafter may be.
She raised her white head
And laughed; and she said

...

Women spend the afternoon squatting on the porch,
picking lice from each other's hair.
They spend the evening feeding the little ones,
lulling them to sleep in the glow of the bottle lamp.
The rest of the night
they offer their back to be slapped and kicked by the men of the house
or sprawl half-naked on the hard wooden cot.
Crows and women greet the dawn together,
the women blowing into the oven to start the fire,

...

She was born among silk, marble, and flowers,
under fine lamps, surrounded by honors.
Isabella, a princess without a throne or sword,
looked down on other people's lives with disdain.

The street children, their tired faces,
were, to her, only misguided beings.
'Why don't they try harder? ' she used to say,
not knowing that one day... she would have to flee.


...