English poetry

Nocturne  Tell me all things false are true, Bitter sweet, that false are wise; I will not doubt nor question you;                                I am in a mood for lies. Tell me all things ill turn good;                    Thew and sinew will be stronger Thriving on the deadly food Life proffers for their hunger. Paint love lovely, if you will; Be crafty, sly, deceptive; Here is fertile land to till, Sun seeking, rain receptive. Hold my hand and lie to me; I will not ask you How nor Why; I see death drawing nigh to me Out of the corner of my eye. BY : Countee Cullen

Four Elms  Whoever it was that planted them A hundred years ago, Spread roots apart and tamped in earth Would now be great to know Another man, tree-comforted, Waits for their leaves to grow. So cloase they are to the house wall                    He could have had no fear That worn with winter and the weight Of every growing year They might break roof and window down Before his sleep could hear. Yet if they should destroy the house It would not be so wrong: Three generations now had heard Branch lifting and bird song. we take a chance on anything We want to keep for long. By : Paul Engle

Losers If I should pass the tomb of Jonah I would stop their and sit awhile; Because I was swallowed one time deep in the dark And came out alive after all. If I pass the birial spot of nero I shall say to the wind, "Well, well!"_ I would have fiddled in a world of fire, I who have done so many stunts not worth the doing. I am looking for the grave of Sinbad too. I want to shake his ghost-hand and say, "Neither of us died very early, did we?" And the last sleeping-place of Nebuchadnezzar When I arrive there I shall tell the wind: "You ate grass; I have eaten crow Who is better off now or next year?" Jack Cade, John Brown, Jesse James, There too I will stop and sit down for awhile. I think I could tell their headstones: "God, let me remember all good losers." I could ask people to throw ashes on their heads In the name of that sergeant at Belleau Woods, Walking into the drumfires, calling...

O What Is That Sound? O what is that sound that so thrills the ear   Down in the valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,   The soldiers coming. O what is that light I see flashing so clear   Over the distance brightly, brightly? Only the sun on their wepons, dear,   As they step lightly. O what are they doing with all that gear,                                What are they doing this morning, this morning? Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,   As they step lightly. O why have they left the road down there,   Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling? Perhaps a change in their orders, dear.   Why are you kneeling? O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,   Haven't they reined their horses, their horses? Why, They are none of them wounded, dear,   None of these forces. O is it the parson...

The Fox And the Grapes One sunner's day a fox was passing through An orchard; faint he was and hungry, too. When suddenly his keen eye chanced to fall Upon a bunch of grapes above the wall. "Ha! Just the thing!" he said. "Who could resist it!" He eyed the purple cluster - jumped - and missed it. "Ahem!" he coughed. "I'll take more careful aim," And sprang again. Results were much more the same, Although his leaps were desperate and high. At length he paused to wipe a tearful eye, And shrug a shoulder. "I am not so dry, And lunch is bound to come within the hour ... Besides," he said, "I am sure those grapes are sour." THE MORAL IS: We somehow want the peach That always dangles just beyond our reach;                   Until we learn never to be upset With what we find too difficult to get. By:    Joseph Lauren

          Fable of the mountain and the squirrel  The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "little prig"; Bun replied,  "You are doubtless very big;                            But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in togather, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I am not so large as you, You are not so small as I And no half so spry. I will not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If i cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut" By ___ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bonnie George Campbell High upon highlands,   And low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell   Rode out on a day; Saddled and bridled,   And gallant to see: Home came his good horse,   But home came not he. Out ran his old mother,   Wild with despair;                                                     Out ran his bonnie bride,   Tearing her hair. He rode saddled and bridled,   With boot to the knee Home came his good horse,   But never came he. "My meadow lies green,    And his corn is unshron, My barn is unbuilt,    And my babe is unborn." He rode saddled and bridled,    Careless and free: Safe home came the saddle,    But never came he. The writer of this poem is unknown...

Crystal Moment   Once or twice this side of death Things can make one hold his breath. From my boyhood I remember A crystal moment of september. A wooded island rang with sounds Of church bells in the throats of hounds. A buck leaped out and took the tide With jewels flowing past each side. With his high head like a tree He swam with in a yard of me. I saw the Forest's holiness On him like a fierce caress.                                   Fear made him lovely past belief, My heart was trembling like a leaf. He leaned towards the land and life With need upon him like a knife. In his wake the hot hounds churned, They streached their muzzles out and yearned. They bayed no more, but swam and throbbed, Hunger drove them since they sobbed. Pursued, pursuers reached the shore And vanished. I saw nothing more. So they passed, a p...