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Louis Untermeyer Poems
Why are the things that have no death The ones with neither sight nor breath! Eternity is thrust upon A bit of earth, a senseless stone.
You have not conquered me—it is the surge Of love itself that beats against my will; It is the sting of conflict, the old urge
Portrait Of A Machine
What nudity as beautiful as this Obedient monster purring at its toil; These naked iron muscles dripping oil
“Do you remember at the rainbow's end Those flowers trampled by the hurrying rain, Hanging their heads, knowing they would not spend
I never knew the earth had so much gold -- The fields run over with it, and this hill, Hoary and old, Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.
Questions At Night
Why Is the sky? What starts the thunder overhead? Who makes the crashing noise?
God, I return to You on April days When along country roads You walk with me, And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays --
How much of Godhood
How much of Godhood did it take -- What purging epochs had to pass, Ere I was fit for leaf and lake And worthy of the patient grass?
What sudden bugle calls us in the night And wakes us from a dream that we had shaped; Flinging us sharply up against a fight We thought we had escaped.
Prayer For This House
MAY nothing evil cross this door, And may ill-fortune never pry About these windows; may the roar And rains go by.
A Side Street
On the warm Sunday afternoons And every evening in the Spring and Summer When the night hurries the late home-corner
I Pause, God, and ponder, ere Thou judgest me. Though it be doomsday, and the trampling winds
What are we bound for? What’s the yield Of all this energy and waste? Why do we spend ourselves and build With such an empty haste?
The quiet and courageous night, A The keen vibration of the stars, Call me, from morbid peace, to fight
Comments about Louis Untermeyer
(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)
Why are the things that have no death
The ones with neither sight nor breath!
Eternity is thrust upon
A bit of earth, a senseless stone.
A grain of dust, a casual clod
Receives the greatest gift of God.
A pebble in the roadway lies—
It never dies.
The grass our fathers cut away
Is growing on their graves to-day;
The tiniest brooks that scarcely flow
Eternally will come and go.
There is no kind of death to kill
The sands that lie so meek and still….
But Man is great and strong and wise—
And so he dies.