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Louis Untermeyer Poems
Portrait Of A Machine
What nudity as beautiful as this Obedient monster purring at its toil; These naked iron muscles dripping oil
Questions At Night
Why Is the sky? What starts the thunder overhead? Who makes the crashing noise?
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
“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.
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.
Shut out the light or let it filter through These frowning aisles as penitentially As though it walked in sackcloth. Let it be
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.
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.
The Dark Chamber
The brain forgets but the blood will remember. There, when the play of sense is over, The last, low spark in the darkest chamber
Only Of Thee And Me
Only of thee and me the night wind sings, Only of us the sailors speak at sea, The earth is filled with wondered whisperings
Spring! And her hidden bugles up the street. Spring -- and the sweet Laughter of winds at the crossing;
Comments about Louis Untermeyer
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Portrait Of A Machine
What nudity as beautiful as this
Obedient monster purring at its toil;
These naked iron muscles dripping oil
And the sure-fingered rods that never miss.
This long and shining flank of metal is
Magic that greasy labour cannot spoil;
While this vast engine that could rend the soil
Conceals its fury with a gentle hiss.
It does not vent its loathing, it does not turn
Upon its makers with destroying hate.
It bears a deeper malice; lives to earn
It’s masters bread and laughs to see this great
Lord of the earth, who rules but cannot learn,
Become the slave of ...