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

Be Angry At The Sun

That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new. That America must accept
Like the historical republics corruption and empire
Has been known for years.

Be angry at the sun for setting
If these things anger you. Watch the wheel slope and turn,
They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors.
This republic, Europe, Asia.

Observe them gesticulating,
Observe them going down. The gang serves lies, the passionate
Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.

You are not Catullus, you know,
To lampoon these crude ...

Read the full of Be Angry At The Sun

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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