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

Hurt Hawks

I

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the ...

Read the full of Hurt Hawks

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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