A Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:


Its lovliness increases; it will never


Pass into nothingness; but still will keep


A bower quiet for us, and a sleep


Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.


Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing


A flowery band to bind us to the earth,


Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth


Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,


Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways


Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,


Some shape of beauty moves away the pall


From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,


Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon


For simple sheep; and such are daffodils


With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make


'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,


Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:


And such too is the grandeur of the dooms


We have imagined for the mighty dead;


An endless fountain of immortal drink,


Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Read More

A Smile To Remember

We had goldfish and they circled around and around

in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes

covering the picture window and

my mother, always smiling, wanting us all

to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'

and she was right: it's better to be happy if you can

but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while

raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't

understand what was attacking him from within. 

my mother, poor fish, 

wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a

week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile! 

why don't you ever smile?' 

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the

saddest smile I ever saw 

one day the goldfish died, all five of them, 

they floated on the water, on their sides, their

eyes still open, 

and when my father got home he threw them to the cat

there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother

smiled. 

Read More

A Silly Poem

loved one. How does the poet feel when he thinks about her death? How does he imagine her to be, after death? 

A slumber did my spirit seal—

I had no human fears. 

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthy years. 

No motion has she now, no force—

She neither hears nor sees, 

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course

With rocks and stones and trees. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions. 

Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas. 

Read More

A Roadside Stand

The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, 

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled, 

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, 

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint. 

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead, 

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts, 

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts, 

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene, 

You have the money, but if you want to be mean, 

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along. 

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid: 

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand, 

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us. 

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store, 

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore, 

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey, 

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits, 

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day, 

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way. 

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain, 

The sadness that lurks near the open window there, 

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car, 

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass, 

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are. 

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around; 

And another to ask the way to where it was bound; 

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see? 

No, in country money, the country scale of gain, 

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found, 

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain, 

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain. 

And then next day as I come back into the sane, 

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain. 

Robert Frost (1874-1963) is a highly acclaimed American poet of the twentieth century. Robert Frost wrote about characters, people and landscapes. His poems are concerned with human tragedies and fears, his reaction to the complexities of life and his ultimate acceptance of his burdens. Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, Birches, Mending walls are a few of his well-known poems. In the poem A Roadside Stand, Frost presents the lives of poor deprived people with pitiless clarity and 

Read More

A Red Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June; 

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I: 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry: 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun: 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee well, my only Luve

And fare thee well, a while! 

And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Read More

A Psalm of Life

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist


Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! -
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.


Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.


Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.


In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!


Trust no Future, how’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!


Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;


Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.


Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
Learn to labor and to walk.


H. W. Longfellow


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), the great American poet, was a professor at Harvard. His great fame began with the publication of his first volume of poems VOICES OF THE NIGHT in 1839 which included A PSALM OF LIFE - one of nineteenth century’s best-loved poems. His other collections include Ballads (1841), Evangeline (1847), Hiawatha (1855), The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858) and Tales of a Wayside Inn (1863).


Longfellow was the most popular poet of his age and during his lifetime he became a national institution. His work was musical, mildly romantic, high-minded and flavored with sentimental preachment. This is the statement about Longfellow by Norton Anthology of American Literature


This poem seems to give a great deal of good advice. It tells the reader not to waste his/her time but to be up and going… not to be discouraged by failures but to have a heart for any fate…not to judge life by temporary standards but to look to eternal reward.

Read More

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 

Act,— act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o’erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Read More

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.



And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.



And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,



And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Read More

A Photograph

The cardboard shows me how it was

When the two girl cousins went paddling

Each one holding one of my mother’s hands,

And she the big girl - some twelve years or so.

All three stood still to smile through their hair

At the uncle with the camera, A sweet face

My mother’s, that was before I was born

And the sea, which appears to have changed less

Washed their terribly transient feet.

Some twenty- thirty- years later

She’d laugh at the snapshot. “See Betty

And Dolly,” she’d say, “and look how they

Dressed us for the beach.” The sea holiday

was her past, mine is her laughter. Both wry

With the laboured ease of loss

Now she’s has been dead nearly as many years

As that girl lived. And of this circumstance

There is nothing to say at all,

Its silence silences.

Read More

A Night in June

The sun has long been set.

The stars are out by twos and threes.

The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and trees.

There’s a cuckoo and one or two thrushes

And a far-off wind that rushes

And a sound of water that gushes

And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry

Fills all the hollow of the sky.

Read More

A Moments Indulgence

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works 

that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. 

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, 

and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. 

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and 

the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. 

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing 

dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 

Read More

A Melody in The Breeze

Air is a mixture – a gaseous mixture! 

It’s indeed easy to find its measure!! 

Oxygen, our friend, supports life on earth, 

And Nitrogen fertilizes the earth. 

Carbon dioxide makes soft drinks frizzle! 

While inert gases have been a puzzle!! 

Water vapor from sea, river and stream, 

And hot, violent, angry whistling steam, 

Into the cool air, they rise so slowly! 

Merge as thick, soft clouds drifting so gently!! 

Look! How softly they come down aglitter

To fill the earth with life – giving water!! 

Like a widely spread blanket in the sky, 

The clouds guard us from the heat from high. 

Ceaseless atomic rays and cosmic dust

Assail our earth like an unwelcome guest. 

Our dear pal ozone – oxygen, again –

Puts up a valiant Defence in vain. 

For man pollutes the air, makes little holes

In the umbrella meant to save our souls!! 

To save this gracious earth, our own mother, 

We’ve got to act now, dear sister, brother! 

Read More

A Lover Calls

Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little 

Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you 

As infants look upon the breast of their mothers? 

Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of 

Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon 

Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice? 

Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge, 

While you are replete with heavenly wisdom? 

Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you 

Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the 

Field, haven of your dreams? 

Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the 

Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and 

Filling their hands with your bounty? 

You are God's spirit everywhere; 

You are stronger than the ages. 

Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of 

You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love 

Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed? 

Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the 

Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs 

Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury? 

Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands 

Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if 

We were hiding ourselves within ourselves? 

Recall you the hour I bade you farewell, 

And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips? 

That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love 

Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter! 

That kiss was introduction to a great sigh, 

Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man. 

That sigh led my way into the spiritual world, 

Announcing the glory of my soul; and there 

It shall perpetuate until again we meet. 

I remember when you kissed me and kissed me, 

With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said, 

"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose, 

And must live apart impelled by worldly intent. 

"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of 

Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God. 

"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate; 

Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower 

The cup of the sweetness of life. 

As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my 

Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding." 

Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in 

The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey 

To you my heart's every beat and affection. 

Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image 

Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his 

Shadow on my happy countenance of the past. 

Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty 

And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses. 

Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping 

From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need? 

Do you know the greatness of my patience? 

Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying 

To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any 

Secret communication between angels that will carry to

You my complaint? 

Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life 

Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me. 

Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me! 

Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me! 

Where are you, me beloved? 

Oh, how great is Love! 

And how little am I! 

Read More

A Smile

A Smile :

A smile is quite a funny thing, 

It wrinkles up your face. 

And when it’s gone

you’ll never find 

Its secret hiding place. 

But far more wonderful it is

To see what smiles can do. 

You smile at one, 

He smiles at you, 

And so one smile 

makes two. 

UNKNOWN AUTHOR 

The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions. 

Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas. 

Read More

A Little Bit of Nonsense

There was an old Man with a beard

Who said, ‘‘It is just as I feared!

Two Owls and a Hen,

Four Larks and a Wren,

Have all built their nests in my beard!


Anonymous


The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions.


Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas.

Read More

A Little Turtle

When I get tired

I put in my head, 

My legs and my tail

And I go to bed. 

UNKNOWN AUTHOR 

The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions. 

Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas. 

Read More

A little bird sees.

A little bird sees

Ripe fruit on our tree

And eats a tasty berry.

The bird flies tall

And a berry seed falls.


The rains have come

Hurry! let’s run.

Clouds, rain and sun...

Our plant is born, a little one.


Now a tree,

With branches long,

Crows and bird-song,

Crawling ants and spiders’ webs,

Caterpillars with tiny legs,

Rich green leaves, life aplenty.


The tree has fruit,

Some big, some small,

Let us pluck them

But do not fall!


Crows perch, squirrels run,

And see the monkeys

Having fun!


Strong branches,

With pretty swings,

Our beautiful tree

Has so many things.


Pranab and Smita Chakravarti


The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions.


Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas.

Read More

A Limerick

A Limerick :

There was an old man who said, “How

Shall I flee from that horrible cow? 

I will sit on the stile, 

And continue to smile, 

Which may soften the heart of the cow.” 

UNKNOWN AUTHOR 

The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions. 

Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas.

Read More

A Letter to Grown-Ups

Dear Grown-Ups, 

Please leave all the flowers there

And do not cut down the trees. 

We need the trees to make fresh air

And flowers to feed the bees. 

Please do not always use your car

To take you everywhere. 

Because the fumes go very far

And heat the atmosphere. 

Then soon the sun will be too hot

And all the plants will die. 

So, please get out and walk a lot

To see the clear blue sky. 

Then we will run and jump and play

And grow up strong and tall

Then we will be happy everyday

And we will thank you all

With love from the children. 

Read More

A Kite

The word POETRY originates from a Greek word meaning TO MAKE. A poet is thus a maker and the poem something that is made or created. No single definition of poetry is possible but some characteristic features of poetry may be mentioned. Poetry has a musical quality with rhythm, pitch, metre and it may use figures of speech such as simile and metaphor. While quite a few poems in this selection are in traditional forms, the unit also includes modern poems that are free from formal restrictions.


Here is a list of English Poems written by various authors. Whatever the question is, poetry may be the answer. Writers say poetry provides them with comfort, a way to express themselves and the discipline of finding the essence with few words. Writing the poem (and finding just the right word) is the measure of success that the authors use. Really good poetry is instinctive. It’s who you are. It’s from the heart. You need to expose yourself to all kinds of poets and you may find your motivation and muse that way. Poetry gets to the core meaning. Poetry expands ideas.

Read More

A Lecture Upon The Shadow

Stand still and I will read to thee

A Lecture, Love, in loves philosophy, 

These three houres that we have spent, 

Walking here, Two shadowes went

Along with us, which we our selves produc’d; 

But, now the Sunne is just above our head, 

We doe those shadowes tread; 

And to brave clearnesse all things are reduc’d. 

So whilst our infant loves did grow, 

Disguises did, and shadowes, flow, 

From us, and our cares; but now ’tis not so. 

That love hath not attain’d the high’st degree, 

Which is still diligent lest others see. 

Except our loves at this noone stay, 

We shall new shadowes make the other way. 

As the first were made to blinde

Others; these which come behinde

Will worke upon our selves, and blind our eyes. 

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline; 

To me thou, falsely thine; 

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. 

The morning shadowes were away, 

But these grow longer all the day, 

But oh, loves day is short, if love decay. 

John Donne was representative of the metaphysical poets of his time. He set the metaphysical mode by vibrancy of language and startling imagery, and a preference for a diction modelled on direct utterances. He was brought up as a Roman Catholic (later he converted to Anglicanism) and was Dean of St. Paul’s Church till his death. The total effect of a metaphysical poem at its best is to startle the reader into seeing and knowing what he has not really noticed or thought about before. Like all Donne’s poetry this poem too reflects an emphasis on the intellect and wit as against feeling and emotion. 

Read More