Alan Seeger

(22 June 1888 - 4 July 1916 / New York City, New York)

Alan Seeger Poems

41. The Rendezvous 1/1/2004
42. Antinous 1/1/2004
43. The Bayadere 1/1/2004
44. Lyonesse 1/1/2004
45. The Sultan's Palace 1/3/2003
46. Liebestod 1/1/2004
47. The Need To Love 1/3/2003
48. Ariosto. Orlando Furioso, Canto X, 91-99 1/1/2004
49. Coucy 1/1/2004
50. An Ode To Antares 1/1/2004
51. Sonnet Xvi: Who Shall Invoke Her 1/3/2003
52. After An Epigram Of Clement Marot 1/1/2004
53. Bellinglise 1/1/2004
54. Kyrenaikos 1/1/2004
55. Eudaemon 1/1/2004
56. Juvenilia, An Ode To Natural Beauty 1/1/2004
57. The Hosts 1/3/2003
58. On A Theme In The Greek Anthology 1/1/2004
59. The Deserted Garden 1/3/2003
60. All That's Not Love . . . 1/1/2004
61. With A Copy Of Shakespeare's Sonnets On Leaving College 1/1/2004
62. Translations: Dante - Inferno, Canto Xxvi 1/1/2004
63. Broceliande 1/1/2004
64. La Nue 1/1/2004
65. Paris 1/1/2004
66. At The Tomb Of Napoleon 1/1/2004
67. I Loved... 1/1/2004
68. The Wanderer 1/3/2003
69. Ode In Memory Of The American Volunteers Fallen For France 1/3/2003
70. Rendezvous 1/3/2003
71. A Message To America 1/1/2004
72. Champagne, 1914-15 1/3/2003
73. Do You Remember Once . . . 1/1/2004
74. Maktoob 1/3/2003
75. I Have A Rendezvous With Death 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Alan Seeger

I Have A Rendezvous With Death

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk ...

Read the full of I Have A Rendezvous With Death

Tithonus

So when the verdure of his life was shed,
With all the grace of ripened manlihead,
And on his locks, but now so lovable,
Old age like desolating winter fell,
Leaving them white and flowerless and forlorn:
Then from his bed the Goddess of the Morn
Softly withheld, yet cherished him no less
With pious works of pitying tenderness;
Till when at length with vacant, heedless eyes,

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