#AmericanWriters #PoemsOfPower
This is the world’s stupendous hou… The supreme moment for the race To see the emptiness of power, The worthlessness of wealth and pl… To see the purpose and the plan
Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place. He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me. Growing heavier, day by day,
The danger of war, with its havoc… The danger of ocean, when storms a… The danger of jungles, where wild… The danger that lies in the mounta… Why, what are they but all mere ch…
So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind, Is all the sad world needs.
I will paint you a sign, rumseller… And hang it above your door; A truer and better signboard Than ever you had before. I will paint with the skill of a m…
I strolled last eve across the lon… One solitary picture struck my eye… A distant ploughboy stood against… How far he seemed above the noisy… Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod
Who travels alone with his eyes on… Though he laughs in the day time o… For courage goes down at the set o… When the toil of the journey is al… He speeds but to grief though full…
The passion you forbade my lips to… Will not be silenced. You must he… The sullen thunders when they roll… And when the tempest nears, with w… I know your calm forgetfulness is…
The meadow and the mountain with d… Gazed on each other, till a fierce… Surged 'neath the meadow’s see… And all the mountain’s fissures… A mighty river rolled between them…
In the midst of sunny waters, lo!… Staggers, bruised and torn and wou… One that drifted from its moorings… On the deck our noble Pilot, in t… Lies in woe-impelling silence, dea…
Love much. Earth has enough of b… Cast sweets into its cup whene’e… No heart so hard, but love at last… Love is the great primæval cause… All hate is foreign to the first g…
In every part of the thrifty town, Whether my course be up or down, In lane, and alley, and avenue, Painted in yellow, and red, and bl… This side and that, east and west,
If all the year was summer-time, And all the aim of life Was just to lilt on like a rhyme '… Then I would be your wife. If all the days were August days,
In the still jungle of the senses… A tiger soundly sleeping, till one… A bold young hunter chanced to com… ‘How calm,’ he said, ‘that splendi… I long to rouse him into swift sur…
Over my desk in a dark office bend… Dim seems the sunlight and dull se… But when the afternoon draws towar… Here waits my steel steed-I mount… Like cobwebs of silver I see in t…