Our latest summer poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest selection.
Morning Song (from Cymbeline)
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
To My Chair
Thou faithful vassal to my wayward will!
Thou patient midwife to my labouring skill!
My pen and ink’s choice cell! my paper’s pillow!
Thou steady friend, e’en were thy master mellow!
My seat! — I visit not the proud St Stephen;
St Stephen knows not me—so we are even.
A seat, obtain’d not by a threat or bribe;
But free, uninfluenced by an influenced tribe:
Thou ‘rt my inheritance—I boast no other;
My throne unique! for thou hast not a brother.
Surrounded by my friends, secure from foes,
By thee upheld, I calmly seek repose.
Soothed by thy comfort, my Ideas spread--
Aerial forms assemble round my head!
Titles and honours court me—in the air!
A proof that I’ve been building castles there!
Days, months, and years I’ve musing sat in thee,
And when grown pettish thou ne’er answered’st me;
A quality this is, so rarely seen,
‘Twould be a jewel might adorn a queen.
My study thou!—my favourite resting place!
My tabernacle where I pray for grace!
My spouse! for in thy arms I oft recline,
And hope, though pleased with progeny of thine,
That no base offspring ever may be mine.
John Gay (1685 - 1732)
Thou faithful vassal to my wayward will!
Thou patient midwife to my labouring skill!
My pen and ink’s choice cell! my paper’s pillow!
Thou steady friend, e’en were thy master mellow!
My seat! — I visit not the proud St Stephen;
St Stephen knows not me—so we are even.
A seat, obtain’d not by a threat or bribe;
But free, uninfluenced by an influenced tribe:
Thou ‘rt my inheritance—I boast no other;
My throne unique! for thou hast not a brother.
Surrounded by my friends, secure from foes,
By thee upheld, I calmly seek repose.
Soothed by thy comfort, my Ideas spread--
Aerial forms assemble round my head!
Titles and honours court me—in the air!
A proof that I’ve been building castles there!
Days, months, and years I’ve musing sat in thee,
And when grown pettish thou ne’er answered’st me;
A quality this is, so rarely seen,
‘Twould be a jewel might adorn a queen.
My study thou!—my favourite resting place!
My tabernacle where I pray for grace!
My spouse! for in thy arms I oft recline,
And hope, though pleased with progeny of thine,
That no base offspring ever may be mine.
John Gay (1685 - 1732)
Summum Bonum
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem:
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea:
Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder, wealth,
and—how far above them--
Truth, that’s brighter than the gem,
Trust, that’s purer than pearl,--
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for me
In the kiss of one girl.
Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem:
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea:
Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder, wealth,
and—how far above them--
Truth, that’s brighter than the gem,
Trust, that’s purer than pearl,--
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for me
In the kiss of one girl.
Robert Browning (1812 – 1889)
The Lady of the Trees
By a lake below the mountain
Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
She had turned it to a tree.
Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer
Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
Always round her curvèd stem.
Mary E Coleridge (1861 - 1907)
By a lake below the mountain
Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
She had turned it to a tree.
Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer
Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
Always round her curvèd stem.
Mary E Coleridge (1861 - 1907)
from Weathers
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest,"
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west.
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks and families homeward go,
And so do I.
Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest,"
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west.
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks and families homeward go,
And so do I.
Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
Swiftscape
Swifts dive and screech
flying low behind the trees
chasing gnats in the warm air.
Only a wisp of moon
an innuendo in the clear blue sky
as their silhouettes rise and swoop.
They dart away down streets
like rowdy bikers
revelling in each twist and turn
to reappear screaming
on scimitar wings
cutting black arcs across the sky.
As swifts outfly the shadows
jasmine fills the air
a blackbird sings, safe in the cherry tree.
Hushed, they wheel and spiral higher
gliding sky-skaters tracing patterns
round the moon.
I gaze until their soaring shapes
merge into the soft mid-summer night
and darkness breaks the spell.
Frances White (1950 - 2018)
(Published in A Way with Words, an anthology of poetry, by Aeronwy Thomas, Beryl Myers, Annie Taylor and Frances White. Poetry Monthly Press, 2007, ISBN 978-1-906357-01-6.)
Swifts dive and screech
flying low behind the trees
chasing gnats in the warm air.
Only a wisp of moon
an innuendo in the clear blue sky
as their silhouettes rise and swoop.
They dart away down streets
like rowdy bikers
revelling in each twist and turn
to reappear screaming
on scimitar wings
cutting black arcs across the sky.
As swifts outfly the shadows
jasmine fills the air
a blackbird sings, safe in the cherry tree.
Hushed, they wheel and spiral higher
gliding sky-skaters tracing patterns
round the moon.
I gaze until their soaring shapes
merge into the soft mid-summer night
and darkness breaks the spell.
Frances White (1950 - 2018)
(Published in A Way with Words, an anthology of poetry, by Aeronwy Thomas, Beryl Myers, Annie Taylor and Frances White. Poetry Monthly Press, 2007, ISBN 978-1-906357-01-6.)
Tea ceremony
Birds chatter in the scattered sun
and golden leaves fall to the lawn
as we enter a Japanese tea house
and take our places on the floor.
The aroma of fresh tatami mats
mixes with gently aged green tea
and quiets our minds, suspending
our thoughts in the rarefied air.
The mistress of this ceremony
pours tea with splendid precision,
each cup's surface glimmering light
at the edge of our awakened eye.
A kind of shared open emptiness
seeps in, and with each sip elevates
our senses slightly above the fray
of our general electric lives.
Vibration, intonation, and manner
replace mood, articulation and
attitude as a shared awareness
of who we really are is savoured.
Fingers become a hand, just as
people become a group, just as
creeks, streams, and channels
become rivers, a sea, and clouds.
Each member of this ceremony
comes forth slightly shifted,
like recently turned leaves
changing the fabric of the tree.
D H Jenkins (1957 - )
Birds chatter in the scattered sun
and golden leaves fall to the lawn
as we enter a Japanese tea house
and take our places on the floor.
The aroma of fresh tatami mats
mixes with gently aged green tea
and quiets our minds, suspending
our thoughts in the rarefied air.
The mistress of this ceremony
pours tea with splendid precision,
each cup's surface glimmering light
at the edge of our awakened eye.
A kind of shared open emptiness
seeps in, and with each sip elevates
our senses slightly above the fray
of our general electric lives.
Vibration, intonation, and manner
replace mood, articulation and
attitude as a shared awareness
of who we really are is savoured.
Fingers become a hand, just as
people become a group, just as
creeks, streams, and channels
become rivers, a sea, and clouds.
Each member of this ceremony
comes forth slightly shifted,
like recently turned leaves
changing the fabric of the tree.
D H Jenkins (1957 - )
Night patrol
Black paws pink padded
Pavements hard surfaced
Brick walls crumble coated
Shed roofs smooth grained
Long grass short grass
Flower garden back yard
Tile roof slither smooth
Ivy wall tangle tousled
Window ledge pot plant
Concrete china earth leaves
Open window smooth floor
Hairy blanket cosy bed
Closed eyes curled paws
Good night, another morning!
Janet Wright (1951 - )
Black paws pink padded
Pavements hard surfaced
Brick walls crumble coated
Shed roofs smooth grained
Long grass short grass
Flower garden back yard
Tile roof slither smooth
Ivy wall tangle tousled
Window ledge pot plant
Concrete china earth leaves
Open window smooth floor
Hairy blanket cosy bed
Closed eyes curled paws
Good night, another morning!
Janet Wright (1951 - )
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2026. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2026. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
