<![CDATA[Dead Poets Daily]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.comhttps://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!z_4A!,w_256,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fbucketeer-e05bbc84-baa3-437e-9518-adb32be77984.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7b481a67-8597-49b1-b0c2-45ed5f95a735_1024x1024.pngDead Poets Dailyhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.comSubstackMon, 27 Jul 2026 05:25:23 GMT<![CDATA[July]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/michael-field-poem-julyhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/michael-field-poem-julyFri, 24 Jul 2026 09:00:14 GMTThere is a month between the swath and sheaf
When grass is gone
And corn still grassy;
When limes are massy
With hanging leaf,
And pollen-coloured blooms whereon
Bees are voices we can hear,
So hugely dumb
This silent month of the attaining year.
The white-faced roses slowly disappear
From field and hedgerow, and no more flowers come;
Earth lies in strain of powers
Too terrible for flowers:
And, would we know
Her burden, we must go
Forth from the vale, and, ere the sunstrokes slacken,
Stand at a moorland’s edge and gaze
Across the hush and blaze
Of the clear-burning, verdant summer bracken;
For in that silver flame
Is writ July’s own name—
The ineffectual, numbed sweet
Of passion at its heat.

]]><![CDATA[Marshlands]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/emily-johnson-poem-marshlandshttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/emily-johnson-poem-marshlandsThu, 23 Jul 2026 09:00:15 GMTA thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,
Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

]]><![CDATA[Epilogue to Through the Looking Glass]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/lewis-carroll-poem-epilogue-to-through-the-looking-glasshttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/lewis-carroll-poem-epilogue-to-through-the-looking-glassWed, 22 Jul 2026 08:59:27 GMTA boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July—

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear—

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life what is it but a dream?

]]><![CDATA[O Captain! My Captain!]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/walt-whitman-poem-o-captain-my-captainhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/walt-whitman-poem-o-captain-my-captainTue, 21 Jul 2026 08:59:07 GMTO Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

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]]><![CDATA[My Hat]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/henry-parland-poem-my-hathttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/henry-parland-poem-my-hatMon, 20 Jul 2026 08:59:13 GMTMy hat
was run over
by a tram
yesterday.

My coat
went out walking
this morning,
somewhere
away.

My shoes
this afternoon
fell victim
to an attack.

—That I’m still here?
That’s exactly
the point.

]]><![CDATA[Acquaintance]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/ella-wheeler-wilcox-poem-acquaintancehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/ella-wheeler-wilcox-poem-acquaintanceFri, 17 Jul 2026 08:59:06 GMTNot we who daily walk the city’s street;
Not those who have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural art,
Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet
Some stranger who has stayed his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we, who deem our knowledge quite complete.

Not always those we hold most loved and dear,
Not always those who dwell with us, know best
Our greater selves. Because they stand so near
They cannot see the lofty mountain crest,
The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and dear
Stands forth-revealed unto the some-time guest.

]]><![CDATA[The Embankment]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/t-e-hulme-poem-the-embankmenthttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/t-e-hulme-poem-the-embankmentThu, 16 Jul 2026 08:59:11 GMTOnce, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth’s the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

]]><![CDATA[Harvest]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/nanita-mac-d-balcom-poem-harvesthttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/nanita-mac-d-balcom-poem-harvestWed, 15 Jul 2026 08:59:10 GMTCome winnow from the wheat
Slow winds of all the years,
A few grains of laughter,
A few grains of tears.
What shall we keep? What keep?

Intemperate we are,
Forever wanting all:
Soft bird-song in spring-time
Slow leaf-drop in fall;
Moments always—moments all.

]]><![CDATA[A Crow’s Feather]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/martin-schacht-poem-a-crows-featherhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/martin-schacht-poem-a-crows-featherTue, 14 Jul 2026 09:00:23 GMTWhile walking in some windy weather
I came upon a black crow’s feather.

I held it out before the sea—
A feather and eternity!

I leaned it up against the sky,
And heard a windy poplar cry.

I buttoned it into my breast—
The faint, warm shuffle of a nest.

]]><![CDATA[The Dew upon the Lotus]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/taigi-haiku-the-dew-upon-the-lotushttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/taigi-haiku-the-dew-upon-the-lotusMon, 13 Jul 2026 08:59:34 GMTWould that my soul could drink
The dew upon the lotus flower
Here at the water’s brink.

A note from the editor

Dead Poets Daily now has over 100,000 subscribers!

Thank you all for your continued interest and support. As previously mentioned, I couldn’t have imagined reaching this many people when I started — nor after the first year when there were just 300 of us.

Nowadays, Dead Poets Daily readers are based in 199 countries.

The largest numbers of subscribers are in:

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Paid subscribers are based in New Zealand, Taiwan, the UK, and the US.

I spend a few hours a week sourcing poems for this service. The income from paid subscribers covers my (very low) running costs, but does not cover my time. So your enthusiasm absolutely motivates me to continue.

Among other types of poetry, this year I’ve aimed to publish one haiku each month. Many of these come from William Porter’s 1911 book A Year of Japanese Epigrams. I recently edited and arranged a new digital edition of this anthology, now available from Apple Books and Flickerwell Classics.

New paid subscribers will receive a complimentary copy, which retails for US$19.99.

For all other subscribers, Dead Poets Daily will always be free (and ad-free).

Thank you again for your interest and support,
Ario Smith
Editor, Dead Poets Daily

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]]><![CDATA[A White Rose]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/john-boyle-oreilly-poem-a-white-rosehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/john-boyle-oreilly-poem-a-white-roseFri, 10 Jul 2026 08:59:32 GMTThe red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud,
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

]]><![CDATA[East or West?]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/charles-turner-poem-east-or-westhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/charles-turner-poem-east-or-westThu, 09 Jul 2026 09:00:00 GMTI sat within a window, looking west,
On a fair autumn eve; the forest leaves
Moved o’er a fiery sunset, vision blest
After that day of storm and rainy eaves.

While thus I gazed, I heard a sweet voice cry:—
“Come to the east, and see the rainbow die.
On the last shower anon the moon will rise,
And light the village when the rainbow dies.”

Betwixt the two I cold not well decide;
For each was fair, and both would vanish soon.

But that sweet voice cried eastward still: I knew
No light would pierce the wood when day withdrew;
So I went east and to the rising moon
The village brightened when the rainbow died.

A note to readers: If you can support Dead Poets Daily, please consider a paid subscription—and receive a complimentary copy of the Flickerwell Classics ebook A Year of Japanese Epigrams, valued at US$19.99:

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]]><![CDATA[To the Poet]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sterling-north-poem-to-the-poethttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sterling-north-poem-to-the-poetWed, 08 Jul 2026 08:59:05 GMTOver the pale shoulders of marble
The trees throw down a shower of golden leaves;
On lichen-painted boughs the last birds warble,
And the wind grieves.

All night the wild teal, mallard and widgeon whistle
Over my rooftop in a gale of wings;
The hoofbeat of the hunter rings
On frosty thoroughfares. Light as a thistle
The white swan glides, and desolately sings.

]]><![CDATA[Old Song]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/naomi-duff-poem-old-songhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/naomi-duff-poem-old-songTue, 07 Jul 2026 08:59:59 GMTA lad must find him reasons for his dreams
And think upon strange destinies that move,
Must find him logic in the stars and streams
And ponder on the miracle of love.

A lass must dance throughout her happy day
And revel in the glories of the sky,
A lass must give herself to love away
And neither know nor care just how or why!

]]><![CDATA[Harvest Moon]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/josephine-preston-peabody-poem-harvest-moonhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/josephine-preston-peabody-poem-harvest-moonMon, 06 Jul 2026 08:59:53 GMTFor the flood,
For the ebb,
(Turn and fold, and fold again,)
Drop by drop, of shining blood.
Life-blood that we gave our men.

Well for me, well for you.
Work is ever yet to do;
Web to wear the daylight through;
Work to do!

From his first of swaddling-bands.
In our hands.—
Now he hears, and understands.
All our spinning song complete,
So he have the winding-sheet.

Better so: the one refrain,—
Back to us, to us again!
All our master-building thus,
Back to us.

This to wind, and this to bathe;
Here, to lull with swathe on swathe;
So to staunch, and so to bind
Darkness softly on our blind.

]]><![CDATA[The Wanderer]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/beulah-may-poem-the-wandererhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/beulah-may-poem-the-wandererFri, 03 Jul 2026 08:59:47 GMTOut of the railroad eating house
Comes a lean brown man,
And putting down his pack
Sits smoking a cigarette.
The glow lights up his sensitive Voltaire face
Gazing moodily out on the trail:
The blue patches under his eyes
Show that he has not slept;
It is evident that he has not long to live
And that he knows it.
He will die sooner if he smokes cigarettes,
And that is the reason why he is smoking one.

]]><![CDATA[When I Rise Up]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/georgia-douglas-johnson-when-i-rise-uphttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/georgia-douglas-johnson-when-i-rise-upThu, 02 Jul 2026 08:59:16 GMTWhen I rise above the earth,
And look down on the things that fetter me,
I beat my wings upon the air,
Or tranquil lie,
Surge after surge of potent strength
Like incense comes to me
When I rise up above the earth
And look down upon the things that fetter me.

]]><![CDATA[To Everlasting Oblivion]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/to-everlasting-oblivionhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/to-everlasting-oblivionWed, 01 Jul 2026 09:00:02 GMTThou mighty gulf, insatiate cormorant,
Deride me not, though I seem petulant
To fall into thy chops. Let others pray
Forever their fair poems flourish may.
But as for me, hungry oblivion,
Devour me quick. Accept my orison,
My earnest prayers which do importune thee,
With gloomy shade of thy still empire
To veil both me and my rude poesy.
Far worthier lines in silence of thy state
Do sleep securely, free from love or hate,
From which this, living, ne’er can be exempt,
But whilst it breathes will hate and fury tempt.
Then close his eyes with thy all-dimming hand
Which not right glorious actions can withstand.
Peace, hateful tongues! I now in silence pace
Unless some hound do wake me from my place.
I with this sharp yet well-meant poesy
Will sleep secure, right free from injury
Of cankered hate or rankest villainy.

A note to readers: Dead Poets Daily will remain ad-free for everyone. If you’re able to support this work, please consider a paid subscription for $5 per month (or $30 per year). Paid subscribers receive a complimentary copy of the ebook A Year of Japanese Epigrams, worth $19.99:

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]]><![CDATA[Preparedness]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/edwin-markham-epigram-preparednesshttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/edwin-markham-epigram-preparednessTue, 30 Jun 2026 09:00:04 GMTFor all your days prepare,
And meet them ever alike:
When you are the anvil, bear—
When you are the hammer, strike.

]]><![CDATA[Birth of the Heart]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/albert-e-johnson-poem-birth-of-the-hearthttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/albert-e-johnson-poem-birth-of-the-heartMon, 29 Jun 2026 08:59:00 GMTIt is not at the womb the heart is born;
There is a braver unannounced birth—
The sharp conception in the breast forlorn
That it is utterly alone on earth.

And then may we rehearse our final part,
Forespend the fearfulness of Death’s dark plan.
He knows no solitude like thine, my heart,
Nor yet the courage of the first last man.

We are but Nature’s finest trick re-give —
The lonely chime of one lone heart is ours.
Shakespeare and I, one man, have troubled heaven
In vain, and pitifully hailed the stars.

And wounded have I crept to Calvary
To find—yes, even there—a bleeding me.

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