Poetry Archives - Mihaela Limberea

Meditatio

30th June 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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This is post 104 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

This abstract photo of sea waves, captured using the Intentional Camera Movement (ICM) technique, features a mesmerizing blend of blue and grey tones. The image showcases vertical, streaked patterns that suggest the motion of waves, with a smooth, blurred effect that eliminates distinct details.

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs,
I am compelled to admit
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man,
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

Ezra Pound (1885 –1972) was one of the most influential but also most difficult poets of the 20th century.

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On Growing Old

16th June 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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John Masefield

This is post 103 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

This is a photograph of an open book placed on a wooden surface. The book is old, with its pages appearing aged and yellowed. The spine of the book is visible, showing a marbled pattern with some leather accents. A pair of eyeglasses rests on the pages of the open book. In the background, out of focus, there is a stack of books with ornate, reddish-orange covers, and a delicate pink dahlia. The lighting in the image is soft, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere, making it a peaceful scene about reading and perhaps contemplation.

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nor share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower,
Spring-time of man all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch.
Give me but these, and, though the darkness close,
Even the night will blossom as the rose.

John Masefield (1878 – 1967) was an English poet and children’s fiction writer. He was Poet Laureate from 1930 until his death in 1967.

To read more poems, click here.

End of the Comedy

9th June 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Louis Untermeyer

This is post 102 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

A crescent moon hangs in a dark, star-filled sky above a silhouetted forest. — *Image by Bruno from Pixabay*

Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.

The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid
Like a drawn sword.

Louis Untermeyer (1885 – 1977) was an American poet, anthologist, critic, and editor.

To read more poems, click here.

Unforgotten

26th May 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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William Rose Benét

This is post 101 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Wakening in the night, the pain that slumber
Strikes with her mace of silence dead and dumb
Loomed over me and, formless, said, “I come!
Bringing illusions lost beyond all number.
Rigid you lie, yet for a little cumber
This flaming world, where some die proudly, some
Glitter like granite, or dream millenium.”
It left me toiled in mountainous clouds of umber.

I lay sustaining all the old emotion,
Numbed as beneath the blows of iron cars.
Then slowly, slowly some supreme devotion
Crept down, and drew me out of ageless wars,
Like a dear voice heard over darkened ocean
When all dim heaven is trembling into stars.

William Rose Benét (1886 – 1950) was an American poet, writer, critic, and editor. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1942 for his book of autobiographical verse, The Dust Which Is God (1941).

To read more poems, click here.

The Poet

19th May 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Mary Cornelia Hartshorne

This is post 100 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

A View of a Lake in the Mountains by George Caleb Bingham. Original public domain image from Los Angeles County Museum of Art Digitally. — *A View of a Lake in the Mountains by George Caleb Bingham.*
*Original public domain image from Los Angeles County Museum of Art.*

Sunlight was something more than that to him.
It was a halo when it formed a rim
Around some far-off mountain peak. He called
It thin-beat leaf of gold, and stood enthralled
When it lay still on some half-sheltered spot
In gilt mosaics where the trees forgot
To hide the grasses carpeting the spot.

The sky to him was not just the blue sky,
But a deep, painted bowl with clouds piled high;
And when these clouds were tinted burning red,
Or gold and bacchic purple, then he said:
“The too-full goblets of the gods had over-run,
Nor give the credit to the disappearing sun
Who flames before he leaves the world in dun.”

Between his eyes and life fate seemed to hold
A magic tissue of transparent gold,
That freed his vision from the dull, drab, hopeless part,
And kept alive a fresh, unsaddened heart.
And all unselfishly he tried to share
His gift with us who see the harsh and bare;
But we refused. We did not know nor care.

Mary Cornelia Hartsho rne (1910 – 1980) was an American poet of Choctaw descent. What is known of her work is published in The American Indian magazine.

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Dover Beach

5th May 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Matthew Arnold

This is post 99 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Matthew Arnold (1822 – 1888) was an English poet and cultural critic.

Mark McGuinness reads and discusses the poem in his podcast, A Mouthful of Air, which features classic and contemporary poetry. Podcast transcription is available.

To read more poems, click here.

[The evening darkens over]

28th April 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Robert Bridges

This is post 98 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

The evening darkens over
After a day so bright
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There’s sound of distant thunder.

The latest sea-birds hover
Along the cliff’s sheer height;
As in the memory wander
Last flutterings of delight,
White wings lost on the white.

There’s not a ship in sight;
And as the sun goes under
Thick clouds conspire to cover
The moon that should rise yonder.
Thou art alone, fond lover.

Robert Bridges (1844 – 1930) was a British poet who was Poet Laureate from 1913 to 1930.

To read more poems, click here.

She says, being forbidden:

21st April 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Leonora Speyer

This is post 97 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

And was there not a king somewhere who said:
“Back, waves! I do command you!” I forget
His name, beloved, or his race, and yet
I know the story and am comforted.
The tides will rise, are rising—see, they spread
About your robes, your ermine will be wet,
Your velvet shoes, your dear dear feet! Ah let
Me warn you, sir, the waves will reach your head!

My king, my kingly love, how shall we stay
The bold broad lifting of this lovely sea?
What is the master word that we must say
To bring these roaring waters to the knee?
The other king went scampering away!
Will you so do? Or will you drown with me?

Leonora Speyer (1872 – 1956) was an American poet and violinist. She won the 1927 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for her book of poetry Fiddler’s Farewell.

To read more poems, click here.

An Essay on Man – Epistle II

14th April 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Alexander Pope

This is post 96 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Photo by kilarov zaneit on Unsplash edited by me

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic’s pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

Go, wondrous creature! mount where science guides,
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old time, and regulate the sun;
Go, soar with Plato to th’ empyreal sphere,
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod,
And quitting sense call imitating God;
As Eastern priests in giddy circles run,
And turn their heads to imitate the sun.
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule –
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!

Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744) was an English poet, translator, and satirist of the Enlightenment era, considered one of the most prominent English poets of the early 18th century.

Mark McGuinness reads and discusses the poem in his podcast, A Mouthful of Air, which features classic and contemporary poetry. Podcast transcription is available.

To read more poems, click here.

Going Somewhere

7th April 2026 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Genevieve Taggard

This is post 95 of 104 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Travelling standing still, I took
Years to do a piece
Of one Pacific Island. Now
Everywhere I look—
As if I stood on top the Pole
And saw surrounding how
The horizon was travelling
While I was standing still—
The world goes round and round and I
Am pure content to be
Its tiny axis toward a sky
That points and centers, spinning by,
In an earth that is, with me,
From root’s depth, into tree,
By tiny atoms, back and forth,
Shaken, a round trip out of earth,
To earth’s depth as before.
I could not travel more.

One circle out of earth and back
Takes seventy years at least;
The other goes with mental speed
Around to the level east.
The atom of my mind can look
While it is being taken
Upon an arc the plumed trees look,
Shaken and unshaken.
So the two circles. Momentary
The horizontal one.
And the tall circle, too, the airy
Flight to the flowing sun,
Converge on this, my standing still,
My travelling through space,
Going somewhere, until
I arrive at no place.

Genevieve Taggard (1894 – 1948) was an American poet and editor.

To read more poems, click here.

Mihaela Limberea

Category: Poetry

Meditatio

On Growing Old

End of the Comedy

Unforgotten

The Poet

Dover Beach

[The evening darkens over]

She says, being forbidden:

An Essay on Man – Epistle II

Going Somewhere

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