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.
The Coming of Good Luck
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently,—as the trees
Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.
Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674)
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently,—as the trees
Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.
Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674)
from The Air Balloon, or Flying Mortal
… In air balloon, to distant realms I go
And leave the gazing multitude below.
No more I'll hear of Venus and her doves,
Nor Cupid flying with the little loves;
Nor would I now in Juno's chariot ride
In princely pomp, with peacock by my side;
In higher state, in Air Balloon I go,
I'd have the gods and goddesses to know.
No more in oriental language fair
I'll read of Genii wafting through the air;
Nor longer will I seek (by Persian wrought)
A carpet, to transport me by a thought;
Enough for me in Air Balloon to go,
And leave th' enquiring multitude below…
No more shall Fancy now, (betwitching fair!)
Erect me castles, floating in the air;
Such vague, such feeble structures I despise,
I'll kick them down as I ascend the skies;
For higher far in Air Balloon I go,
And leave the wond'ring multitude below.
No longer, now, at distance need I try
To trace each planet with perspective eye;
Nor longer wish, with fairies from afar;
To slide me gently down on falling star;
For up or down with equal ease I steer,
And view with naked eye the splendid sphere….
Mary Alcock (1742 – 1798)
… In air balloon, to distant realms I go
And leave the gazing multitude below.
No more I'll hear of Venus and her doves,
Nor Cupid flying with the little loves;
Nor would I now in Juno's chariot ride
In princely pomp, with peacock by my side;
In higher state, in Air Balloon I go,
I'd have the gods and goddesses to know.
No more in oriental language fair
I'll read of Genii wafting through the air;
Nor longer will I seek (by Persian wrought)
A carpet, to transport me by a thought;
Enough for me in Air Balloon to go,
And leave th' enquiring multitude below…
No more shall Fancy now, (betwitching fair!)
Erect me castles, floating in the air;
Such vague, such feeble structures I despise,
I'll kick them down as I ascend the skies;
For higher far in Air Balloon I go,
And leave the wond'ring multitude below.
No longer, now, at distance need I try
To trace each planet with perspective eye;
Nor longer wish, with fairies from afar;
To slide me gently down on falling star;
For up or down with equal ease I steer,
And view with naked eye the splendid sphere….
Mary Alcock (1742 – 1798)
Rain
More than the wind, more than the snow,
More than the sunshine, I love the rain;
Whether it droppeth soft and low,
Whether it rusheth amain.
Dark as the night it spreadeth its wings,
Slow and silently up on the hills;
Then sweeps o’er the vale, like a steed that springs
From the grasp of a thousand wills.
Swift sweeps under heaven the raven cloud’s flight;
And the land and the lakes and the main
Lie belted beneath the steel-bright light,
The light of the swift-rushing rain.
On evenings of summer, when sunlight is low,
Soft the rain falls from opal-hued skies;
And the flowers the most delicate summer can show
Are not stirr’d by its gentle surprise.
It falls on the pools, and no wrinkling it makes,
But touching melts in, like the smile
That sinks in the face of a dreamer, but breaks
Not the calm of his dream’s happy wile.
The grass rises up as it falls on the meads,
The bird softlier sings in his bower,
And the circles of gnats circle on like wing’d seeds
Through the soft sunny lines of the shower.
Ebeneezer Jones (1820 – 1860)
More than the wind, more than the snow,
More than the sunshine, I love the rain;
Whether it droppeth soft and low,
Whether it rusheth amain.
Dark as the night it spreadeth its wings,
Slow and silently up on the hills;
Then sweeps o’er the vale, like a steed that springs
From the grasp of a thousand wills.
Swift sweeps under heaven the raven cloud’s flight;
And the land and the lakes and the main
Lie belted beneath the steel-bright light,
The light of the swift-rushing rain.
On evenings of summer, when sunlight is low,
Soft the rain falls from opal-hued skies;
And the flowers the most delicate summer can show
Are not stirr’d by its gentle surprise.
It falls on the pools, and no wrinkling it makes,
But touching melts in, like the smile
That sinks in the face of a dreamer, but breaks
Not the calm of his dream’s happy wile.
The grass rises up as it falls on the meads,
The bird softlier sings in his bower,
And the circles of gnats circle on like wing’d seeds
Through the soft sunny lines of the shower.
Ebeneezer Jones (1820 – 1860)
Market Day
White, glittering sunlight fills the market square,
Spotted and sprigged with shadows. Double rows
Of bartering booths spread out their tempting shows
Of globed and golden fruit, the morning air
Smells sweet with ripeness, on the pavement there
A wicker basket gapes and overflows
Spilling out cool, blue plums. The market glows,
And flaunts, and clatters in its busy care.
A stately minster at the northern side
Lifts its twin spires to the distant sky,
Pinnacled, carved and buttressed; through the wide
Arched doorway peals an organ, suddenly --
Crashing, triumphant in its pregnant tide,
Quenching the square in vibrant harmony.
Amy Lowell 1874–1925
White, glittering sunlight fills the market square,
Spotted and sprigged with shadows. Double rows
Of bartering booths spread out their tempting shows
Of globed and golden fruit, the morning air
Smells sweet with ripeness, on the pavement there
A wicker basket gapes and overflows
Spilling out cool, blue plums. The market glows,
And flaunts, and clatters in its busy care.
A stately minster at the northern side
Lifts its twin spires to the distant sky,
Pinnacled, carved and buttressed; through the wide
Arched doorway peals an organ, suddenly --
Crashing, triumphant in its pregnant tide,
Quenching the square in vibrant harmony.
Amy Lowell 1874–1925
If I should ever by Chance
If I should ever by chance grow rich
I’ll buy Codham, Cockridden and Childerditch,
Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,
And let them to my elder daughter.
The rent I shall ask of her will be only
Each year’s first violets, white and lonely,
The first primroses and orchises–
She must find them before I do, that is.
But if she finds a blossom on the furze
Without rent they shall ever be hers,
Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,–
I shall give them all to my elder daughter.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
If I should ever by chance grow rich
I’ll buy Codham, Cockridden and Childerditch,
Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,
And let them to my elder daughter.
The rent I shall ask of her will be only
Each year’s first violets, white and lonely,
The first primroses and orchises–
She must find them before I do, that is.
But if she finds a blossom on the furze
Without rent they shall ever be hers,
Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,–
I shall give them all to my elder daughter.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
Afternoon on a Hill
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one!
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes
Watch the wind bow down the grass
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town
I will mark which must be mine
And then start down!
Edna St Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one!
I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes
Watch the wind bow down the grass
And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show
Up from the town
I will mark which must be mine
And then start down!
Edna St Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Blessed Are Those
Blessed are those who ease us
from our mothers,
slap our bottoms until we yell,
inoculate us against harm.
Blessed are those who raise us,
insulate us with arms,
and words, and leave
their hearts wide open.
Blessed are those who unscramble
letters and numbers,
lead us into creativity-
art that disarms.
Blessed are those in workplaces,
who raise their voices on our behalf.
Owen Gallagher (1948-
Blessed are those who ease us
from our mothers,
slap our bottoms until we yell,
inoculate us against harm.
Blessed are those who raise us,
insulate us with arms,
and words, and leave
their hearts wide open.
Blessed are those who unscramble
letters and numbers,
lead us into creativity-
art that disarms.
Blessed are those in workplaces,
who raise their voices on our behalf.
Owen Gallagher (1948-
A Rainbow of Delight
Cream mixed with ice, full of calories,
a hillock melting in its cone.
99s with chocolate flake,
or those tubs of pastel colours
green, pink, beige, cream, yellow:
pistachio, strawberry, coffee, vanilla, lemon.
Sitting on the bench
sea and mountain our vista,
ice creams melting as we lick,
not food, not confectionery,
just pure joy.
Sue Moules (1957-
Cream mixed with ice, full of calories,
a hillock melting in its cone.
99s with chocolate flake,
or those tubs of pastel colours
green, pink, beige, cream, yellow:
pistachio, strawberry, coffee, vanilla, lemon.
Sitting on the bench
sea and mountain our vista,
ice creams melting as we lick,
not food, not confectionery,
just pure joy.
Sue Moules (1957-
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors
