The Daily Poem

Today's poem is Robert Penn Warren's "Heart of Autumn."

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Today's poem is Scott Cairns' "Which Tribe, Which River?"

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Today's poem is Robert Herrick's "Delight in Disorder."

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness;

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher;

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

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Today's poem is Phyllis McGinley's "November."

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Today's poem is Thomas Hardy's "Last Week in October."

The trees are undressing, and fling in many places—

On the gray road, the roof, the window-sill—

Their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces;

A leaf each second so is flung at will,

Here, there, another and another, still and still.

A spider's web has caught one while downcoming,

That stays there dangling when the rest pass on;

Like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming

In golden garb, while one yet green, high yon,

Trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.

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Today's poem is Richard Wilbur's "October Maples, Portland." Remember: rate, review, spread the word.

The leaves, though little time they have to live,

Were never so unfallen as today,

And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve

The very light from which time fell away.

A showered fire we thought forever lost

Redeems the air. Where friends in passing meet,

They parley in the tongues of Pentecost.

Gold ranks of temples flank the dazzled street.

It is light of maples, and will go;

But not before it washes eye and brain

With such a tincture, such a sanguine glow

As cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.

So Mary’s laundered mantle (in the tale

Which, like all pretty tales, may still be true),

Spread on the rosemary-bush, so drenched the pale

Slight blooms in its irradiated hue,

They could not choose but to return in blue.

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Today's poem is Edith Wharton's "The Autumn Sunset." Remember: rate and review to spread the word.

I

Leaguered in fire

The wild black promontories of the coast extend

Their savage silhouettes;

The sun in universal carnage sets,

And, halting higher,

The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats,

Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned,

That, balked, yet stands at bay.

Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day

In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline,

A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine

Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray,

And in her hand swings high o’erhead,

Above the waster of war,

The silver torch-light of the evening star

Wherewith to search the faces of the dead.

 II

Lagooned in gold,

Seem not those jetty promontories rather

The outposts of some ancient land forlorn,

Uncomforted of morn,

Where old oblivions gather,

The melancholy unconsoling fold

Of all things that go utterly to death

And mix no more, no more

With life’s perpetually awakening breath?

Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore,

Over such sailless seas,

To walk with hope’s slain importunities

In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not

All things be there forgot,

Save the sea’s golden barrier and the black

Close-crouching promontories?

Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories,

Shall I not wander there, a shadow’s shade,

A spectre self-destroyed,

So purged of all remembrance and sucked back

Into the primal void,

That should we on the shore phantasmal meet

I should not know the coming of your feet?

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Today's poem is R.S. Thomas' "Welsh Landscape". Remember: rate, review, subscribe.

To live in Wales is to be conscious

At dusk of the spilled blood

That went into the making of the wild sky,

Dyeing the immaculate rivers

In all their courses.

It is to be aware,

Above the noisy tractor

And hum of the machine

Of strife in the strung woods,

Vibrant with sped arrows.

You cannot live in the present,

At least not in Wales.

There is the language for instance,

The soft consonants

Strange to the ear.

There are cries in the dark at night

As owls answer the moon,

And thick ambush of shadows,

Hushed at the fields’ corners.

There is no present in Wales,

And no future;

There is only the past,

Brittle with relics,

Wind-bitten towers and castles

With sham ghosts;

Mouldering quarries and mines;

And an impotent people,

Sick with inbreeding,

Worrying the carcase of an old song.

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Today's poem is Julia Ward Howe's familiar refrain, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

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