Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

The firste stock-father of gentleness,
What man desireth gentle for to be,
Must follow his trace, and all his wittes dress,
Virtue to love, and vices for to flee;
For unto virtue longeth dignity,
And not the reverse, safely dare I deem,
All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe.

This firste stock was full of righteousness,
True of his word, sober, pious, and free,
Clean of his ghost, and loved business,
Against the vice of sloth, in honesty;
And, but his heir love virtue as did he,
He is not gentle, though he riche seem,
All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe.

Vice may well be heir to old richess,
But there may no man, as men may well see,
Bequeath his heir his virtuous nobless;
That is appropried to no degree,
But to the first Father in majesty,
Which makes his heire him that doth him queme,
All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe.
...

She woke me up at dawn,
her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels.

I sat up and looked out the window
at the snow falling in the stand of blackjack trees.

A bus ticket in her hand.

Then she brought something black up to her mouth,
a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler.

...

The seed complains not of winter; she sleeps
In darkness waiting patiently for spring.
Dreaming of sunlight and blue skies, she weeps.
Be patient, tiny seed; time needs time to spring.

When life gives you not what you want, do not rush.
Be still as the stillness of a summer night.
You're the painter of your life, drop not the brush.
Be patient, keep the candle of hope alight.


...

AT last she comes, O never more
In this dear patience of my pain
To leave me lonely as before,
Or leave my soul alone again.
...

Say not of beauty she is good,
Or aught but beautiful,
Or sleek to doves' wings of the wood
Her wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word's touch
Consumes her like a curse;
But love her not too much, too much,
For that is even worse.


...

I am a vampire in love with
A human who does not love me,
And thinks that I am just a myth,
Claiming a vampire I do be.
Of course if wanted I could change
This human into a vampire.
And I know that it does sound strange,
But it's this human I desire,
And am afraid that such change would
Destroy the love that I do feel

...

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"

Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!


Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!
...

Come to me when grief is over,
When the tired eyes,
Seek thy cloudy wings to cover
Close their burning skies.

Come to me when tears have dwindled
Into drops of dew,
When the sighs like sobs re-kindled
Are but deep and few.


...

Can we flow through the music so well?
Like wind or breeze, rest never taken,
Lost in the melody, deep and deep,
Soul and body meet the music and its beat.
Let us see the music in every falling leaf,
In every snowflake, so white and feathery,
Silence of the night and brutal rainy day,
Sunny morning and blossoming flowers sway.
Let us find our music to flow, flow so well,
Gentle and smooth, let us flow through the spell.

...