John Crowe Ransom Poems

Conrad, Conrad, aren't you old
To sit so late in your mouldy garden?
And I think Conrad knows it well,
Nursing his knees, too rheumy and cold
...

We shall come tomorrow morning, who were not to have her love,
We shall bring no face of envy but a gift of praise and lilies
...

Procne, Philomela, and Itylus,
Your names are liquid, your improbable tale
Is recited in the classic numbers of the nightingale.
...

Beautiful as the flying legend of some leopard
She had not chosen yet her captain, nor Prince
Depositary to her flesh, and our defense;
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A GREAT green spread of meadow land,
(Must rest his weight on an ample base),
A secret water moving on,
A clean blue air for his breathing-space,
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DUMB-BELLS left, dumb-bells right,
Swing them hard, grip them tight!
Thirty fat men of the town
Must sweat their filthy paunches down.
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I know a quite religious man
Who utters praises when he can.
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THE country farmer has his joys
Of little city girls and boys
When brother Thomas brings his brood
...

SAVOR of love is thick on the April air,
The blunted boughs dispose their lacy bloom,
And many sorry steeds dismissed to pasture
...

By night they haunted a thicket of April mist,
Out of that black ground suddenly come to birth,
...