Robinson Jeffers

(10 January 1887 – 20 January 1962 / Allegheny, Pennsylvania)

Robinson Jeffers Poems

1. Vulture 1/13/2003
2. Hurt Hawks 1/13/2003
3. Carmel Point 1/13/2003
4. Shine, Perishing Republic 1/13/2003
5. The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean 1/13/2003
6. Fire On The Hills 1/13/2003
7. Contemplation Of The Sword 1/13/2003
8. Be Angry At The Sun 1/13/2003
9. The Epic Stars 1/13/2003
10. Ascent To The Sierras 1/13/2003
11. Rock And Hawk 1/13/2003
12. Ave Caesar 1/13/2003
13. To The Stone-Cutters 1/13/2003
14. Love The Wild Swan 1/13/2003
15. The Answer 1/13/2003
16. The Purse-Seine 1/13/2003
17. The Eye 1/13/2003
18. Apology For Bad Dreams 4/12/2010
19. Inscription For A Gravestone 4/12/2010
20. Contrast 1/13/2003
21. July Fourth By The Ocean 1/13/2003
22. Return 1/13/2003
23. Tor House 1/13/2003
24. The Deer Lay Down Their Bones 1/13/2003
25. Sign-Post 1/13/2003
26. Fawn's Foster-Mother 1/13/2003
27. Promise Of Peace 1/13/2003
28. So Many Blood-Lakes 1/13/2003
29. Bixby's Landing 1/13/2003
30. Boats In A Fog 4/12/2010
31. On Building With Stone 1/13/2003
32. Let Them Alone 1/13/2003
33. Meditation On Saviors 1/13/2003
34. Birth-Dues 1/13/2003
35. Summer Holiday 1/13/2003
36. The Excesses Of God 1/13/2003
37. The Great Explosion 1/13/2003
38. Shiva 1/13/2003
39. Time Of Disturbance 1/13/2003
40. To A Young Artist 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Robinson Jeffers

Vulture

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-
feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time
here.
These old bones will still work; ...

Read the full of Vulture

The Eye

The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean,
The blue pool in the old garden,
More than five thousand years has drunk sacrifice
Of ships and blood, and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific--
Our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant.
Neither our present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs
Nor any future world-quarrel of westering
And eastering man, the bloody migrations, greed of power, clash of
faiths--

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