Famous Laureate Poems by Famous Poets

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• Laureate Poems by Members
• Best Laureate Poems by Members
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Weary Waitress

 Her smile ineffably is sweet,
 Devinely she is slim;
Yet oh how weary are her feet,
 How aches her every limb!
Thank God it's near to closing time,
 --Merciful midnight chime.

Then in her mackintosh she'll go
 Up seven flights of stairs,
And on her bed her body throw,
 Too tired to say her prayers;
Yet not too sleepy to forget
 Her cheap alarm...Read more of this...

America America!

 I am a poet of the Hudson River and the heights above it,
 the lights, the stars, and the bridges
I am also by self-appointment the laureate of the Atlantic
 -of the peoples' hearts, crossing it 
 to new America.

I am burdened with the truck and chimera, hope,
 acquired in the sweating sick-excited passage 
 in steerage, strange and estranged
Hence...Read more of this...

Nuremberg

IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadowlands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 5 
Had their dwelling...Read more of this...

The Hill We Climb

When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We've braved the belly of the beast
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn't always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn't...Read more of this...

Lycidas

 In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately
drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637;
and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, 
then in their height.


YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter...Read more of this...

On a Forenoon of Spring

 I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel 
The full deliciousness of this bright day, 
That's like a heart with nothing to conceal; 
The young leaves scarcely trembling; the blue-grey 
Rimming the cloudless ether far away; 
Brairds, hedges, shadows; mountains that reveal 
Soft sapphire; this great floor of polished steel 
Spread out amidst the landmarks of the bay....Read more of this...

Huddersfield - The Second Poetry Capital Of England

 It brings to mind Swift leaving a fortune to Dublin

‘For the founding of a lunatic asylum - no place needs it more’.

The breathing beauty of the moors and cheap accommodation

Drew me but the total barbarity of the town stopped me from

Writing a single line: from the hideous facade of its railway

Station - Betjeman must have been drunk or mad...Read more of this...

Model For The Laureate

 On thrones from China to Peru
All sorts of kings have sat
That men and women of all sorts
proclaimed both good and great;
And what's the odds if such as these
For reason of the State
Should keep their lovers waiting,
 Keep their lovers waiting?

Some boast of beggar-kings and kings
Of rascals black and white
That rule because a strong right arm
Puts all men in a...Read more of this...

They have a little Odor -- that to me

 They have a little Odor -- that to me
Is metre -- nay -- 'tis melody --
And spiciest at fading -- indicate --
A Habit -- of a Laureate --...Read more of this...

To A Poet That Died Young

 Minstrel, what have you to do
With this man that, after you,
Sharing not your happy fate,
Sat as England's Laureate?
Vainly, in these iron days,
Strives the poet in your praise,
Minstrel, by whose singing side
Beauty walked, until you died.

Still, though none should hark again,
Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
Blows the rose its musk across,
Floats the boat that is forgot
None...Read more of this...

127. Stanzas on Naething

 TO you, sir, this summons I’ve sent,
 Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing;
But if you demand what I want,
 I honestly answer you—naething.


Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,
 For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
 Are busy employed about—naething.


Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,
 And grumble his hurdies their claithing,
He’ll find, when the balance is cast,
...Read more of this...

Lowly Laureate

 O Sacred Muse, my lyre excuse! -
My verse is vagrant singing;
Rhyme I invoke for simple folk
Of penny-wise upbringing:
For Grannies grey to paste away
Within an album cover;
For maids in class to primly pass,
And lads to linger over.

I take the clay of every day
And mould it in my fashion;
I seek to trace the commonplace
With humor and compassion.
Of earth am I, and...Read more of this...

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