Poem Lake | The Greatest Poems of All Time

The Way to Arcady Oh, what ’s the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what ’s the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry? Oh, what ’s the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree,— The tree the wind is blowing through,— It sets... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	She Was a Beauty She was a beauty in the days When Madison was President, And quite coquettish in her ways,— On conquests of the heart intent. Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phrase,— She was a beauty in the days... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	A Pitcher of Mignonette A pitcher of mignonette In a tenement’s highest casement,— Queer sort of flower-pot—yet That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement— The pitcher of mignonette, In the tenement’s... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	Deaf As to a bird’s song she were listening, Her beautiful head is ever sidewise bent; Her questioning eyes lift up their depths intent— She, who will never hear the wild-birds sing. My words within her ears’ cold chambers ring Faint, with the city’s murmurous... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner
Les Morts Vont Vite Les morts vont vite! Ay, for a little space We miss and mourn them fallen from their place; To take our portion in their rest are fain; But by-and-by, having wept, press on again, Perchance to win their laurels in the race. What man would find the... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	The Appeal to Harold Haro! haro! Judge now betwixt this woman and me, Haro She leaves me bond, who found me free. Of love and hope she hath drained me dry— Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky; She hath not left me tears for weeping, Nor will my... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	On Reading a Poet's First Book This is a breath of summer wind That comes—we know not how—that goes As softly,—leaving us behind, Pleased with a smell of vine and rose. Poet, shall this be all thy word? Blow on us with a bolder breeze, Until we rise, as having heard... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	Feminine She might have known it in the earlier Spring,— That all my heart with vague desire was stirred; And, ere the Summer winds had taken wing, I told her; but she smiled and said no word. The Autumn’s eager hand his red gold grasped, And she was silent... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner
To a June Breeze Wind of the City Streets, Impatient to be free, In this dull time of heats My love takes wings to flee: Leave thou this idle Town And hunt Her down. Wherever She may stay, By Sea or Mountain-side, Make thou... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner	The Chaperon I take my chaperon to the play— She thinks she ’s taking me. And the gilded youth who owns the box, A proud young man is he; But how would his young heart be hurt If he could only know That not for his sweet sake I go ... Poet: Henry Cuyler Bunner