Hidden Poetry

Made with the words of dead poets. See how it works. A project by Denis Metzger

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The Two Cocks.

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The Rain Comes Sobbing To The Door

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The Queen Of Fairy Land

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Pirates’ Song

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Piccadilly Circus At Night

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Autumn

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

All of winter will return to me: derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice, And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison, My soul will harden into a block of red ice.

I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam: The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums. My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs To the blows of a relentless battering ram.

It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere. For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn. Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.

Charles Baudelaire

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Night In New York

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The Nemesis Of Suns

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Green River

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I Love You

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine    And red with a wild desire; I love your eyes when the lovelight lies    Lit with a passionate fire. I love your arms when the warm white flesh    Touches mine in a fond embrace; I love your hair when the strands enmesh    Your kisses against my face.

Not for me the cold, calm kiss    Of a virgin’s bloodless love; Not for me the saint’s white bliss,    Nor the heart of a spotless dove. But give me the love that so freely gives    And laughs at the whole world’s blame, With your body so young and warm in my arms,    It sets my poor heart aflame.

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,    Still fragrant with ruby wine, And say with a fervor born of the South    That your body and soul are mine. Clasp me close in your warm young arms,    While the pale stars shine above, And we’ll live our whole young lives away    In the joys of a living love.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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The Man In The Moon

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Morning Phoenix

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When I Am Gone

When I am gone what will you do? Who will write and draw for you? Someone smarter—someone new? Someone better—maybe YOU!

Shel Silverstein

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Moonset

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It Could’t Be Done

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done      But he with a chuckle replied That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one      Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried. So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin      On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing      That couldn’t be done, and he did it! 

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;      At least no one ever has done it;” But he took off his coat and he took off his hat      And the first thing we knew he’d begun it. With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,      Without any doubting or quiddit, He started to sing as he tackled the thing      That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,      There are thousands to prophesy failure, There are thousands to point out to you one by one,      The dangers that wait to assail you. But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,      Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing      That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Edgar Albert Guest 

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Moonrise

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Milk For The Cat