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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.

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Written by Willa Cather | Create an image from this poem


 "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.

Written by Willa Cather | Create an image from this poem


 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.
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 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.
Written by Willa Cather | Create an image from this poem


 THROUGH halls of vanished pleasure, 
And hold of vanished power, 
And crypt of faith forgotten, 
A came to Ludlow tower.
A-top of arch and stairway, Of crypt and donjan cell, Of council hall, and chamber, Of wall, and ditch, and well, High over grated turrets Where clinging ivies run, A thousand scarlet poppies Enticed the rising sun, Upon the topmost turret, With death and damp below,-- Three hundred years of spoilage,-- The crimson poppies grow.
This hall it was that bred him, These hills that knew him brave, The gentlest English singer That fills an English grave.
How have they heart to blossom So cruel and gay and red, When beauty so hath perished And valour so hath sped? When knights so fair are rotten, And captains true asleep, And singing lips are dust-stopped Six English earth-feet deep? When ages old remind me How much hath gone for naught, What wretched ghost remaineth Of all that flesh hath wrought; Of love and song and warring, Of adventure and play, Of art and comely building, Of faith and form and fray-- I'll mind the flowers of pleasure, Of short-lived youth and sleep, That drunk the sunny weather A-top of Ludlow keep.
Written by Willa Cather | Create an image from this poem


 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!

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 WOE is me to tell it thee, 
Winter winds in Arcady! 
Scattered is thy flock and fled 
From the glades where once it fed, 
And the snow lies drifted white 
In the bower of our delight, 
Where the beech threw gracious shade 
On the cheek of boy and maid: 
And the bitter blasts make roar 
Through the fleshless sycamore.
White enchantment holds the spring, Where thou once wert wont to sing, And the cold hath cut to death Reeds melodious of thy breath.
He, the rival of thy lyre, Nightingale with note of fire, Sings no more; but far away, From the windy hill-side gray, Calls the broken note forlorn Of an aged shepherd's horn.
Still about the fire they tell How it long ago befell That a shepherd maid and lad Met and trembled and were glad; When the swift spring waters ran, And the wind to boy or man Brought the aching of his sires-- Song and love and all desires.
Ere the starry dogwoods fell They were lovers, so they tell.
Woe is me to tell it thee, Winter winds in Arcady! Broken pipes and vows forgot, Scattered flocks returning not, Frozen brook and drifted hill, Ashen sun and song-birds still; Songs of summer and desire Crooned about the winter fire; Shepherd lads with silver hair, Shepherd maids no longer fair.