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Best Famous Flirt Poems

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!


Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

A Lovers Quarrel

 I.

Oh, what a dawn of day!
How the March sun feels like May!
All is blue again
After last night's rain,
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
Only, my Love's away!
I'd as lief that the blue were grey,

II.

Runnels, which rillets swell,
Must be dancing down the dell,
With a foaming head
On the beryl bed
Paven smooth as a hermit's cell;
Each with a tale to tell,
Could my Love but attend as well.

III.

Dearest, three months ago!
When we lived blocked-up with snow,---
When the wind would edge
In and in his wedge,
In, as far as the point could go---
Not to our ingle, though,
Where we loved each the other so!

IV.

Laughs with so little cause!
We devised games out of straws.
We would try and trace
One another's face
In the ash, as an artist draws;
Free on each other's flaws,
How we chattered like two church daws!

V.

What's in the `Times''?---a scold
At the Emperor deep and cold;
He has taken a bride
To his gruesome side,
That's as fair as himself is bold:
There they sit ermine-stoled,
And she powders her hair with gold.

VI.

Fancy the Pampas' sheen!
Miles and miles of gold and green
Where the sunflowers blow
In a solid glow,
And---to break now and then the screen---
Black neck and eyeballs keen,
Up a wild horse leaps between!

VII.

Try, will our table turn?
Lay your hands there light, and yearn
Till the yearning slips
Thro' the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn!

VIII.

Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o'er neck:
'Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we'll embrace.

IX.

See, how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
'Tis a huge fur cloak---
Like a reindeer's yoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best.

X.

Teach me to flirt a fan
As the Spanish ladies can,
Or I tint your lip
With a burnt stick's tip
And you turn into such a man!
Just the two spots that span
Half the bill of the young male swan.

XI.

Dearest, three months ago
When the mesmerizer Snow
With his hand's first sweep
Put the earth to sleep:
'Twas a time when the heart could show
All---how was earth to know,
'Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro?

XII.

Dearest, three months ago
When we loved each other so,
Lived and loved the same
Till an evening came
When a shaft from the devil's bow
Pierced to our ingle-glow,
And the friends were friend and foe!

XIII.

Not from the heart beneath---
'Twas a bubble born of breath,
Neither sneer nor vaunt,
Nor reproach nor taunt. 
See a word, how it severeth!
Oh, power of life and death
In the tongue, as the Preacher saith!

XIV.

Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me, your own, your You,---
Since, as truth is true,
I was You all the happy past---
Me do you leave aghast
With the memories We amassed?

XV.

Love, if you knew the light
That your soul casts in my sight,
How I look to you
For the pure and true
And the beauteous and the right,---
Bear with a moment's spite
When a mere mote threats the white!

XVI.

What of a hasty word?
Is the fleshly heart not stirred
By a worm's pin-prick
Where its roots are quick?
See the eye, by a fly's foot blurred---
Ear, when a straw is heard
Scratch the brain's coat of curd!

XVII.

Foul be the world or fair
More or less, how can I care?
'Tis the world the same
For my praise or blame,
And endurance is easy there.
Wrong in the one thing rare---
Oh, it is hard to bear!

XVIII.

Here's the spring back or close,
When the almond-blossom blows:
We shall have the word
In a minor third
There is none but the cuckoo knows:
Heaps of the guelder-rose!
I must bear with it, I suppose.

XIX.

Could but November come,
Were the noisy birds struck dumb
At the warning slash
Of his driver's-lash---
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb
Facing the castle glum
And the giant's fee-faw-fum!

XX.

Then, were the world well stripped
Of the gear wherein equipped
We can stand apart,
Heart dispense with heart
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,---
Oh, the world's hangings ripped,
We were both in a bare-walled crypt!

XXI.

Each in the crypt would cry
``But one freezes here! and why? 
``When a heart, as chill,
``At my own would thrill
``Back to life, and its fires out-fly?
``Heart, shall we live or die?
``The rest. . . . settle by-and-by!''

XXII.

So, she'd efface the score,
And forgive me as before.
It is twelve o'clock:
I shall hear her knock
In the worst of a storm's uproar,
I shall pull her through the door,
I shall have her for evermore!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

A Song For Kilts

 How grand the human race would be
 If every man would wear a kilt,
A flirt of Tartan finery,
 Instead of trousers, custom built!
Nay, do not think I speak to joke:
 (You know I'm not that kind of man),
I am convinced that all men folk.
 Should wear the costume of a Clan.

Imagine how it's braw and clean
 As in the wind it flutters free;
And so conducive to hygiene
 In its sublime simplicity.
No fool fly-buttons to adjust,--
 Wi' shanks and maybe buttocks bare;
Oh chiels, just take my word on trust,
 A bonny kilt's the only wear.

'Twill save a lot of siller too,
 (And here a canny Scotsman speaks),
For one good kilt will wear you through
 A half-a-dozen pairs of breeks.
And how it's healthy in the breeze!
 And how it swings with saucy tilt!
How lassies love athletic knees
 Below the waggle of a kilt!

True, I just wear one in my mind,
 Since sent to school by Celtic aunts,
When girls would flip it up behind,
 Until I begged for lowland pants.
But now none dare do that to me,
 And so I sing with lyric lilt,--
How happier the world would be
 If every male would wear a kilt!
Written by Dale Harcombe | Create an image from this poem

Brass Kaleidoscope

 My daughter raises the smooth
 brass kaleidoscope
 and watches as coloured glass slivers
 conspire together.
 New worlds create themselves before her eyes.
 Garnet spires flirt with sapphire
 and turquoise.
 Topaz and amethyst meet in harmony,
 a selenic mystery.
 A melody of stars singing a tune only she
 can hear.
 Eclectic patterns shiver and shimmer
 then splinter,
 sparking off at tangents of
 tourmaline and jasper.
 An image complete in itself.



 I had a kaleidoscope once.
 Sometimes
 I still see oblique patterns.

 Slowly my daughter turns the wheel, finds
 a jewelled tapestry 
 to her liking, and hands the kaleidoscope
 to me.
 For a time I see the world she sees
 and it is good. 


*First published LiNQ October 1990
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Canine Conversation

 If dogs could speak, O Mademoiselle,
What funny stories they could tell!
For instance, take your little "peke,"
How awkward if the dear could speak!
How sad for you and all of us,
Who round you flutter, flirt and fuss;
Folks think you modest, mild and meek . . .
But would they - if Fi-Fi could speak?

If dogs could tell, Ah Madame Rose,
What secrets could they not disclose!
If your pet poodle Angeline
Could hint at half of what she's seen,
Your reputation would, I fear,
As absolutely disappear
As would a snowball dropped in hell . . .
If Angeline could only tell.

If dogs could speak, how dangerous
It would be for a lot of us!
At what they see and what they hear
They wink an eye and wag an ear.
How fortunate for old and young
The darlings have a silent tongue!
We love them, but it's just as well
For all of us that - dogs can't tell.


Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The City Bushman

 It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, 
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent; 
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push, 
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush; 
But we lately heard you singing of the `plains where shade is not', 
And you mentioned it was dusty -- `all was dry and all was hot'. 

True, the bush `hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too, 
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you; 
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee -- 
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be. 
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet 
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street; 
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall, 
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'. 

Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about, 
There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without -- 
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn 
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn, 
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest, 
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West; 
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks 
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks. 

And the `rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme, 
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time; 
For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry, 
Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky -- 
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night 
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight. 
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best, 
But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West; 
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring, 
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything. 

In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird, 
But the `carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard. 
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true, 
But I only heard him asking, `Who the blanky blank are you?' 
And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his `silver chime' is harsh 
When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh. 

Yes, I heard the shearers singing `William Riley', out of tune, 
Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon, 
But the bushman isn't always `trapping brumbies in the night', 
Nor is he for ever riding when `the morn is fresh and bright', 
And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run -- 
And the camp-fire's `cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone; 
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days, 
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze, 
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn 
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn. 
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags, 
And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags, 
And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp, 
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp. 

Would you like to change with Clancy -- go a-droving? tell us true, 
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you, 
And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock 
To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock, 
And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome 
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home. 

Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black, 
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back 
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots 
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots -- 
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough 
Till a squatter's irate dummy cantered up to warn you off? 
Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the `seasons' were asleep, 
Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep, 
Drinking mud instead of water -- climbing trees and lopping boughs 
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows? 

Do you think the bush was better in the `good old droving days', 
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways, 
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn, 
But were forced to take provisions from the station in return -- 
When you couldn't keep a chicken at your humpy on the run, 
For the squatter wouldn't let you -- and your work was never done; 
When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn 
While you `rose up Willy Riley' -- in the days ere you were born? 

Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like 
Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike. 
Don't you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a rest 
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West? 
Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum 
Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come; 
Where the scalper -- never troubled by the `war-whoop of the push' -- 
Has a quiet little billet -- breeding rabbits in the bush; 
Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw, 
And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law; 
Where the labour-agitator -- when the shearers rise in might -- 
Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right; 
Where the squatter makes his fortune, and `the seasons rise and fall', 
And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all; 
Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest 
Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West. 

And you think the bush is purer and that life is better there, 
But it doesn't seem to pay you like the `squalid street and square'. 
Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or verse, 
Of the awful `city urchin who would greet you with a curse'. 
There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the fat, 
And we'll back a teamster's offspring to outswear a city brat. 
Do you think we're never jolly where the trams and buses rage? 
Did you hear the gods in chorus when `Ri-tooral' held the stage? 
Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin's voice 
When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for Royce? 
Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars 
When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars? 

You've a down on `trams and buses', or the `roar' of 'em, you said, 
And the `filthy, dirty attic', where you never toiled for bread. 
(And about that self-same attic -- Lord! wherever have you been? 
For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.) 
But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push, 
And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush. 

. . . . . 

You'll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in drought, 
Isn't quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about, 
Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides 
In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides; 
Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees 
And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees! 
Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand 
And to feel once more a little like a native of the land. 
And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes 
Isn't suited to the country nor the spirit of the times. 
Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live, 
Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Detachment

 As I go forth from fair to mart
With racket ringing,
Who would divine that in my heart
Mad larks are singing.
As I sweet sympathy express,
Lest I should pain them,
The money-mongers cannot guess
How I disdain them.

As I sit at some silly tea
And flirt and flatter
How I abhor society
And female chatter.
As I with wonderment survey
Their peacock dresses,
My mind is wafted far away
To wildernesses.

As I sit in some raucous pub,
Taboo to women,
And treat myself to greasy grub
I feel quite human.
Yet there I dream, despite the din,
Of God's green spaces,
And sweetly dwell the peace within
Of sylvan graces.

And so I wear my daily mask
Of pleasant seeming,
And nobody takes me to task
For distant dreaming;
A happy hypocrite am I
Of ambiance inner,
Who smiling make the same reply
To saint and sinner.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Spring Day

 Bath
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is 
a smell of tulips and narcissus
in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and 
bores through the water
in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It 
cleaves the water
into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of 
the water and dance, dance,
and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir 
of my finger
sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes 
of light
in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white 
water,
the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is 
almost
too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright 
day.
I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps 
by the window, and there is
a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Breakfast Table
In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table 
is decked and white.
It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,
and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over 
its side,
draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver 
coffee-pot,
hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl -- 
and my eyes
begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like 
darts.
Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the 
sun to bask.
A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, 
scream,
flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee 
steam rises in a stream,
clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the 
sunlight,
revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin 
spiral
up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the 
coffee steam.
The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

Walk
Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer 
away without touching.
On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass 
marbles,
with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet
clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red 
striped agates.
The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into 
the gutters
under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus 
in the air,
but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the 
street,
and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The 
dust and the wind
flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, 
tap,
the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the 
flowers
on her hat.
A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of 
the way. It is green and gay
with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water 
over
the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells 
of tulips and narcissus.
The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille' 
against the blue sky.
Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each 
other and sheer away just in time.
Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front 
of the white dust,
leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead 
of the wind,
jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, 
sharp-beaked, irresistible,
shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and 
sunshine
tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky 
is quiet and high,
and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

Midday and Afternoon
Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and 
recoil of traffic. The stock-still
brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people
lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies 
of light
in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple 
jars,
darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,
murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,
blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder 
of brakes
on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against
the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, 
a bit of blown dust,
thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement 
under me,
reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, 
dragging,
plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic 
insteps.
A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.
They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.
The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues 
of gold blind the shop-windows,
putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

Night and Sleep
The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric 
signs gleam out
along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, 
and grow,
and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades 
scream
in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, 
snap, that means
a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is 
the sidelong
sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street.
A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall 
building,
but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?
I leave the city with speed. Wheels 
whirl to take me back to my trees
and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed 
and clean,
it has come but recently from the high sky. There are 
no flowers
in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
My room is tranquil and friendly. Out 
of the window I can see
the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads 
with no stems.
I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants 
and shops
I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,
glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing
for the Spring.
The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is 
a whiff of flowers in the air.
Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour 
your blue and purple dreams
into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and 
mutters
***** tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping 
their horses
down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the 
colour of the sky
when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they 
are like
tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.
Written by Joyce Kilmer | Create an image from this poem

Dave Lilly

 There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used 
to be full of trout,
But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished 
out.
I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago,
And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.
There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North 
Adams road,
And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and 
sowed.
He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think.
And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.
Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares 
very much;
They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such.
But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish;
He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.
The other night I was walking up the hill from 
Williamstown
And I came to the brook I mentioned,
and I stopped on the bridge and sat down.
I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white
And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.
And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to 
me I could feel
The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel.
And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought 
to land
By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.
I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all 
about;
There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout.
But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak
And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.
It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone 
fished that brook;
And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your 
hook.
But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set
I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.
I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle 
of rye
And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.
I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave
And put some flowers on it -- but this will be better for Dave.
Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Cruelty and Love

 What large, dark hands are those at the window 
Lifted, grasping in the yellow light 
Which makes its way through the curtain web 
At my heart to-night? 

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest, 
In the west I see a redness come 
Over the evening's burning breast -- 
For now the pain is numb. 

The woodbine creeps abroad 
Calling low to her lover: 
The sunlit flirt who all the day 
Has poised above her lips in play 
And stolen kisses, shallow and gay 
Of dalliance, now has gone away 
-- She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, 
And when above her his broad wings hover 
Then her bright breast she will uncover 
And yeild her honey-drop to her lover. 

Into the yellow, evening glow 
Saunters a man from the farm below, 
Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed 
Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed. 
The bird lies warm against the wall. 
She glances quick her startled eyes 
Towards him, then she turns away 
Her small head, making warm display 
Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway 
Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball, 
Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies 
In one blue stoop from out the sties 
Into the evening's empty hall. 

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes 
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, 
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, 
Till the distance covers his dangerous tread. 

The rabbit presses back her ears, 
Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes 
And crouches low: then with wild spring 
Spurts from the terror of the oncoming 
To be choked back, the wire ring 
Her frantic effort throttling: 
Piteous brown ball of quivering fears! 

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, 
And swings all loose to the swing of his walk. 
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes 
And ready to open in brown surprise 
Should I not answer to his talk 
Or should he my tears surmise. 

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair 
Watching the door open: he flashes bare 
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes 
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise 
He flihgs the rabbit soft on the table board 
And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword 
Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad 
Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud 
His coming: he raises up my face to him 
And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim 
Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare! 
I know not what fine wire is round my throat, 
I only know I let him finger there 
My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat 
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: 
And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down 
His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood 
Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood 
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown 
Within him, die, and find death good.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry