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Every Day Poems

A Poem A Day

  • Poetry of the 1500s
  • Poetry of the1600s
  • Poetry of the 1700s
  • Poems for Kids
  • War Poems
  • Every Poem

1900s

Where-Away by James Whitcomb Riley

May 8, 2011 by Every Writer

 

Where-Away

by James Whitcomb Riley

O the Lands of Where-Away!
Tell us?tell us?where are they?
Through the darkness and the dawn
We have journeyed on and on?
From the cradle to the cross?
From possession unto loss,?
Seeking still, from day to day,
For the lands of Where-Away.

When our baby-feet were first
Planted where the daisies burst,
And the greenest grasses grew
In the fields we wandered through,
On, with childish discontent,
Ever on and on we went,
Hoping still to pass, some day,
O’er the verge of Where-Away.

Roses laid their velvet lips
On our own, with fragrant sips;
But their kisses held us not,
All their sweetness we forgot;?
Though the brambles in our track
Plucked at us to hold us back?
“Just ahead,” we used to say,
“Lie the Lands of Where-Away.”

Children at the pasture-bars,
Through the dusk, like glimmering stars,
Waved their hands that we should bide
With them over eventide:
Down the dark their voices failed
Falteringly, as they hailed,
And died into yesterday?
Night ahead and?Where-Away?

Twining arms about us thrown?
Warm caresses, all our own,
Can but stay us for a spell?
Love hath little new to tell
To the soul in need supreme,
Aching ever with the dream
Of the endless bliss it may
Find in Lands of Where-Away!

Filed Under: 1900s

Whispers of Immortality by T. S. Eliot

May 7, 2011 by Every Writer

Whispers of Immortality

by T. S. Eliot

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.

Filed Under: 1900s, Eliot, T. S.

The Fathers by Siegfried Sassoon

May 3, 2011 by Every Writer

 

The Fathers

by Siegfried Sassoon

Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: “My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthur’s getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch gun.”

“Yes,” wheezed the other, “that’s the luck!
My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if there’s truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more
Before they bolt across the Rhine.”
I watched them toddle through the door?
These impotent old friends of mine.

Filed Under: 1900s, Sassoon, Sigfried

Memorial Day by Joyce Kilmer

May 2, 2011 by Every Writer

Memorial Day

by Joyce Kilmer

“Dulce et decorum est”

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.

The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.

May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.

In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.

Filed Under: 1900s, Kilmer, Joyce

Tavern by Edna St. Vincent Millay

April 30, 2011 by Every Writer

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

 

Tavern

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I’ll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill’s crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
And dream his journey’s end,
But I will rouse at midnight
The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy?
But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
A long time ago.

Filed Under: 1900s, Millay, Edna St. Vincent

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