Just a teen trying to express his thoughts, feelings and ideas through poetry. Hope you enjoy. more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Gleb Zavlanov Poems
The Great Depression
It walked like shadow in the night Without a word, a sound And when it struck, a vicious bite It split the sky and ground
Song of the Nightingale
Singly sweetly in its tree Caressing clouds in Heaven’s dale Singly softly, sweet to me This gracious, little nightingale
When Clouds Upon the Summer Breeze All R...
When clouds upon the summer breeze all rest And easeful, take upon their faery flight Into the paling crimson of the west Where noonday dreams wilt in the breath of night,
Sweet love, if death’s black net my mind shall cover And drape with doubly twining nets my heart, Be not the one to weep and cry, dear lover For never shall I from your essence, part.
Down through the Alps, immortal, standing high Whose feathers are the clouds of passing days And whose sweet bosoms touch the milky sky And whose faint breaths birth thick and gentle haze;
Ode to Spring
Fair Spring, a lady, palely loitering, Whose brow is decked with flowers and with dew, Whose bosom births youth’s essence which does bring Unto the barren glades, a glory, new,
Oh Hypnos lord of all the lands of dream, Whose slumb’rous breath weaves eyes with poppy leaf, And whose sweet lullabies mortals relieve Of throes, and shields them from the evil scheme
Oh, Caesar, though our touch is lost in time: Weeks, passing years, and years long eons, passed, I still can hear and feel in learnéd rhyme Your essence. Like some bee which has amassed
Ode to a Bee
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss, Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span, What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss? Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Ode To Morning
Yon morning, spellbound mistress of the skies How gently all your feathers move apart How lightly thrill your soft, eternal sighs And feed with hope and mirth my swollen heart
If Fall Shall Rob Fair Summer
If Fall shall rob fair summer of her boon, And steal the gloried rays of her gold sun,
Addressed To The Muses
Give me my pen and feed my heart with muse, And I shall write until the night transforms Into the morning, when the earth imbues And quakes with spirits of the sleeping worms.
On a Golden Finch
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet, I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime, As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
Dear love, you are a snow-girt swan who glides Along the pearly traces of a lake For in your breast, unearthly grace resides: A power, like morn’s bud, wide and awake.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Great Depression
It walked like shadow in the night
Without a word, a sound
And when it struck, a vicious bite
It split the sky and ground
Never there was such great despair
Left all men by its feet
And anywhere and everywhere
They had none to live or eat
They tried to hide but found were they
And anyplace they left
Was teemed with gloom, sad and most grey
Cheerless, lonely, bereft
They bit the dust and gulped defeat
Twas nothing left at all
And shattered was each heart, in need
Each broken and dimmed soul
The market fell, each core was ...