<![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.comSubstackSun, 25 Oct 2026 10:04:48 GMT<![CDATA[Aku]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/chairil-anwar-poem-akuhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/chairil-anwar-poem-akuFri, 23 Oct 2026 08:59:32 GMTIf my time should come
I’d like no one to entice me
Not even you
No need for those sobs and cries

I am but a wild animal
Cut from its kind

Though bullets should pierce my skin
I shall still strike and march forth

Wounds and poison shall I take aflee. Aflee
’Til the pain and pang should disappear

And I should care even less

I want to live
for another thousand years

]]><![CDATA[Hot Sun, Cool Fire]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/george-peele-poem-hot-sun-cool-firehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/george-peele-poem-hot-sun-cool-fireThu, 22 Oct 2026 08:59:33 GMTHot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning;
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

]]><![CDATA[A Parable]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/arthur-conan-doyle-poem-a-parablehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/arthur-conan-doyle-poem-a-parableWed, 21 Oct 2026 08:59:32 GMTThe cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.

]]><![CDATA[Greeting]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/ella-young-poem-greetinghttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/ella-young-poem-greetingTue, 20 Oct 2026 08:59:35 GMTOver the wave-patterned sea-floor,
Over the long sun-burnt ridge of the world,
I bid the winds seek you.
I bid them cry to you
Night and morning
A name you loved once;
I bid them bring to you
Dreams, and strange imaginings, and sleep.

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]]><![CDATA[The Fiddler]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/lola-ridge-poem-the-fiddlerhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/lola-ridge-poem-the-fiddlerMon, 19 Oct 2026 08:59:35 GMTIn a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, undersized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white, thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.

]]><![CDATA[Backside]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/chika-sagawa-poem-backsidehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/chika-sagawa-poem-backsideFri, 16 Oct 2026 08:59:33 GMTNight eats color,
Flower bouquets lose their fake ornaments.
Day falls into the leaves like sparkling fish
And struggles, like the lowly mud,
The shapeless dreams and trees
Nurtured outside this shriveled, deridable despair.
And the space that was chopped down
Tickles the weeds there by its feet.
Fingers stained with tar from cigarettes
Caress the writhing darkness.
And then the people move forward.

]]><![CDATA[A World of Dew]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/kobayashi-issa-poem-a-world-of-dewhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/kobayashi-issa-poem-a-world-of-dewThu, 15 Oct 2026 08:59:40 GMTA world of dew,
And within every dewdrop
A world of struggle.

]]><![CDATA[The Butterfly’s First Flight]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/agnes-strickland-poem-the-butterflys-first-flighthttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/agnes-strickland-poem-the-butterflys-first-flightWed, 14 Oct 2026 08:59:08 GMTThou hast burst from thy prison,
Bright child of the air,
Like a spirit just risen
From its mansion of care.

Thou art joyously winging
Thy first ardent flight,
Where the gay lark is singing
Her notes of delight.

Where the sunbeams are throwing
Their glories on thine,
Till thy colours are glowing
With tints more divine.

Then tasting new pleasure
In summer’s green bowers,
Reposing at leisure
On fresh-open’d flowers;

Or, delighted to hover
Around them to see
Whose charms, airy rover,
Bloom sweetest for thee;

And fondly exhaling
Their fragrance till day
From thy bright eye is failing
And fading away;

Then seeking some blossom
Which looks to the west,
Thou dost find in its bosom
Sweet shelter and rest;

And there dost betake thee
Till darkness is o’er,
And the sunbeams awake thee
To pleasure once more.

]]><![CDATA[Here Dead Lie We]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/a-e-housman-poem-here-dead-lie-wehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/a-e-housman-poem-here-dead-lie-weTue, 13 Oct 2026 08:59:41 GMTHere dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is, and we were young.

]]><![CDATA[The Solitude of Glass]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/yvor-winters-poem-the-solitude-of-glasshttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/yvor-winters-poem-the-solitude-of-glassMon, 12 Oct 2026 09:00:56 GMTNo ferns, but
Fringed rock
Spreads on hills
To cover us.

On stone of pollen
At the bend of sight
Stiff rocks
Cast violet eyes

Like rays of shadow,
Roam
Impenetrable
In a cold of glass—

The sun, a lichen
Spreading on the sky
For days
Behind the cold;

The burros,
Like iron-filings
Gathered to
The adamant.

The harvest falls
Throughout the valleys
With a sound of
Fire in leaves—

The harsh trees
Heavy with light
Beneath the flame, and aging,
Have risen high and higher—

Apricots,
The clustered
Fur of bees
Above the gray rocks of the uplands;

The hunter deep in summer;
Grass laid low by what comes,
Feet or air—
But motion, aging.

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]]><![CDATA[Trees]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/william-haskell-simpson-poem-treeshttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/william-haskell-simpson-poem-treesFri, 09 Oct 2026 08:59:48 GMTYou root deep,
And reach skyward.
Something you say to me
That is under the earth.
Something you say to me
That is over the earth.

What it is,
Perhaps the closed eyes know.
What it is,
Maybe the folded wings know.

]]><![CDATA[A Shadow]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sophie-margaretta-almon-hensley-poem-a-shadowhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sophie-margaretta-almon-hensley-poem-a-shadowThu, 08 Oct 2026 08:59:10 GMTThe world to-day is radiant, as I ne’er
Could picture it in wildest dreaming, when
For long, long hours I lay in flowery glen
Or wooded copse, and tried in vain to tear
The glamour from my eyes, and face the glare
And tumult of the busy world of men.
I staked my all, and won! and ne’er again
Can my blest spirit know a heart’s despair.

And yet—and yet—why should it be that now,
When all my heart has longed for is at last
Within my grasp, and I should be at rest,
A ghostly Something rising in the glow
Of Love’s own fire, an uninvited guest,
Taunts me with just one memory of the past!

]]><![CDATA[Beatitude]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/beatitudehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/beatitudeWed, 07 Oct 2026 08:59:22 GMTTake no drug for sorrow: drain the cup
Until you hold it bottom-up.
Know that pain’s own bitter wine
Is pain’s only anodyne;
And of this truth your comfort make
After all, your heart can break.

]]><![CDATA[Girls in the Garden]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/shoha-haiku-girls-in-the-gardenhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/shoha-haiku-girls-in-the-gardenTue, 06 Oct 2026 08:59:13 GMTSkirts trailing in the dew,
The girls around the garden stroll
The autumn tints to view.

]]><![CDATA[In the Bazaars of Hyderabad]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sarojini-naidu-poem-in-the-bazaars-of-hyderabadhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/sarojini-naidu-poem-in-the-bazaars-of-hyderabadMon, 05 Oct 2026 08:59:34 GMTWhat do you sell, O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron, lentil, and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragonfly’s wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O ye Fruit merchants?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, O ye musicians?
Sitar, Sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, O ye magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

]]><![CDATA[The Antique to the Northern Wanderer]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/friedrich-schiller-poem-the-antique-to-the-northern-wandererhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/friedrich-schiller-poem-the-antique-to-the-northern-wandererFri, 02 Oct 2026 08:59:16 GMTThou hast crossed over torrents, and swung through wide-spreading ocean,
Over the chain of the Alps dizzily bore thee the bridge,
That thou might’st see me from near, and learn to value my beauty,
Which the voice of renown spreads through the wandering world.
And now before me thou standest, canst touch my altar so holy,
But art thou nearer to me, or am I nearer to thee?

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]]><![CDATA[Camaraderie]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/charlotte-becker-poem-camaraderiehttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/charlotte-becker-poem-camaraderieThu, 01 Oct 2026 08:59:34 GMTTo share what eyes have seen and ears have heard,
To know each other’s language; and to feel
The larger meaning of the spoken word,
The subtler nearness silences reveal.

]]><![CDATA[The Wind]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/gwendolen-haste-poem-the-windhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/gwendolen-haste-poem-the-windWed, 30 Sep 2026 09:00:06 GMTThe cabin sits alone far up a hill
Where all the year the mournful wind blows shrill.

She used to tell him sometimes: “No one knows
How hard it is to listen while it blows.”

He never touched a plow again, they say,
After he found her dead, but went away.

And tenants wouldn’t live upon the place
Because, the neighbors said, they saw her face

Pressed close against the little window-pane
Watching the twisting storm-clouds in the rain;

And in the night-time they could hear her cry
And moan and whimper if the gale was high.

They said she had no cause to die, but still
The wind was always blowing on that hill.

]]><![CDATA[A Gift to Bring You]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/rumi-poem-a-gift-to-bring-youhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/rumi-poem-a-gift-to-bring-youTue, 29 Sep 2026 09:01:08 GMTYou have no idea how hard I’ve looked for a gift to bring you.
Nothing seemed right.
What’s the point of bringing gold to the gold mine, or water to the ocean.
Everything I came up with was like taking spices to the Orient.
It’s no good giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.
So I’ve brought you a mirror.
Look at yourself and remember me.

]]><![CDATA[Mountain Speech]]>https://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/harry-cowell-poem-mountain-speechhttps://www.deadpoetsdaily.com/p/harry-cowell-poem-mountain-speechMon, 28 Sep 2026 08:59:53 GMTHigh over all the loftiest heads of valley herds
The mountain spoke some most majestic words:

What said the venerable mountain to his brother,
Speaking as one great ancient poet to another?

Last night I dreamed I knew—last night I dreamed I flew,
This morn I do not know.

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