Poems

 
 
 

 


Orchid and Parasol
Ju-Hong Chen

A Drinking Song
-W.B. Yeats

Wine comes in the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

 

       

 


Butterfly

After Death
  by Christine Rossetti

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
 And strewn with rushes, rosemary, and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned over me, thinking that I slept
 And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
 ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
 That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
   Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
   He did not love me living; but once dead
 He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he is still warm though I am cold.

 

 

 

 

 

It Often Comes Into My Head
Walter Savage Landor

It often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.
O that it were so! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest;
I should forever dream of you!!!

 


 

 


Beasts of the Sea
Henri Matisse

 

 


Two Jimson Weeds…
Georgia Okeeffe

 

 

 

 


Butterflies
 

Gloire de Dijon

D.H. Lawrence

When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden Shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.

She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.

 

 

 

 

 

       Dead Still
by Andrei Voznesensky

Now, with your palms on the blades of my shoulders,
let us embrace:
Let there be only your lips’ breath on my face,
Only, behind our backs, the plunge of rollers.

Our backs, which like two shells in moonlight shine,
Are shut behind us now;
We lie here huddled, listening brow to brow,
Like life’s twin formula or double sign.

In folly’s world-wide wind
Our shoulders shield from the weather
The calm we now beget together,
Like a flame held between hand and hand.

Does each cell have a soul within it?
If so, fling open all your little doors,
And all your souls shall flutter like the linnet
In the cages of my pores.

Nothing is hidden that shall not be known.
Yet by no storm of scorn shall we
Be pried from this embrace, and left alone
Like muted shells forgetfull of the sea.

Meanwhile, O load of stress and bother,
Lie on the shells of our backs in a great heap:
It will press us closer, one to the other.

We are asleep.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 


Pine Forest 1902
Gustav Klimt
 

 

Love
Roy Croft

I love you,
Not for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what 
You have made for yourself,
But for what 
You are making of me.

I love you,
For that part of me
That you bring out;
I love you 
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can’t help
Dimly seeing there.
And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple:
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach 
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good,
And more than any fate
Could have done
TO make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.
You have done it
By being yourself
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means
After all.

 

 

 

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