Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Willa Cather Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Willa Cather poems. This is a select list of the best famous Willa Cather poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Willa Cather poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Willa Cather poems.

Search for the best famous Willa Cather poems, articles about Willa Cather poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Willa Cather poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Willa Cather | |

THE HAWTHORN TREE

 ACROSS the shimmering meadows-- 
Ah, when he came to me! 
In the spring-time, 
In the night-time, 
In the starlight, 
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land-- Ah, when he climbed to me! To my white bower, To my sweet rest, To my warm breast, Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang, High in the hawthorn tree; What the breeze tells, What the rose smells, What the stars shine-- Not what he said to me!


by Willa Cather | |

LONDON ROSES

 "ROWSES, Rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you-- 
Slattern girls in Trafalgar, eager to sell you.
Roses, roses, red in the Kensington sun, Holland Road, High Street, Bayswater, see you and smell you-- Roses of London town, red till the summer is done.
Roses, roses, locust and lilac, perfuming West End, East End, wondrously budding and blooming Out of the black earth, rubbed in a million hands, Foot-trod, sweat-sour over and under, entombing Highways of darkness, deep gutted with iron bands.
"Rowses, rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you, Ruddy blooms of corruption, see you and smell you, Born of stale earth, fallowed with squalor and tears-- North shire, south shire, none are like these, I tell you, Roses of London perfumed with a thousand years.


by Willa Cather | |

PARADOX

 I KNEW them both upon Miranda's isle, 
Which is of youth a sea-bound seigniory: 
Misshapen Caliban, so seeming vile, 
And Ariel, proud prince of minstrelsy, 
Who did forsake the sunset for my tower 
And like a star above my slumber burned.
The night was held in silver chains by power Of melody, in which all longings yearned-- Star-grasping youth in one wild strain expressed, Tender as dawn, insistent as the tide; The heart of night and summer stood confessed.
I rose aglow and flung the lattice wide-- Ah, jest of art, what mockery and pang! Alack, it was poor Caliban who sang.


by Willa Cather | |

THE TAVERN

 IN the tavern of my heart 
Many a one has sat before, 
Drunk red wine and sung a stave, 
And, departing, come no more.
When the night was cold without, And the ravens croaked of storm, They have sat them at my hearth, Telling me my house was warm.
As the lute and cup went round, They have rhymed me well in lay;-- When the hunt was on at morn, Each, departing, went his way.
On the walls, in compliment, Some would scrawl a verse or two, Some have hung a willow branch, Or a wreath of corn-flowers blue.
Ah! my friend, when thou dost go, Leave no wreath of flowers for me; Not pale daffodils nor rue, Violets nor rosemary.
Spill the wine upon the lamps, Tread the fire, and bar the door; So despoil the wretched place, None will come forevermore.