Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay,
And their memories throb through life;
The music that hushes or stirs to-day,
Is toned by their calm or strife.
Gone! and yet they never go!
We kneel at the shrine of time:
‘Tis a mystery no man may know,
Nor tell in a poet’s rhyme.
by ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN (1839-1886)
Public Domain Poetry
Full of life, now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)
by WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892)
Public Domain Poetry
The way her silky garments undulate
It seems she’s dancing as she walks along,
Like serpents that the sacred charmers make
To move in rhythms of their waving wands.
Like desert sands and skies she is as well,
As unconcerned with human misery,
Like the long networks of the ocean’s swells
Unfolding with insensibility.
Her polished eyes are made of charming stones,
And in her essence, where the natures mix
Of holy angel and the ancient sphinx,
Where all is lit with gold, steel, diamonds,
A useless star, it shines eternally,
The sterile woman’s frigid majesty.
by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (1821-1867)
Public Domain Poetry
A man said to the universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
by STEPHEN CRANE (1871-1900)
Public Domain Poetry
The fable which I now present,
Occurred to me by accident:
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.
A stupid ass this morning went
Into a field by accident:
And cropped his food, and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffling it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
“Hurrah, hurrah!” exclaimed the brute,
“How cleverly I play the flute!”
A fool, in spite of nature’s bent,
May shine for once, by accident.
by TOMAS DE IRIARTE Y OROPESA (1750-1791)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 