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James Stephens | Grafton Street (The Rocky Road To Dublin) | At four o'clock, in dainty talk,
Lords and lovely ladies walk,
With a gentle dignity,
From the Green to Trinity.
And at five o'clock they take,
In a Caf', tea and cake,
Then they call a carriage, and
Drive back into fairyland.
| At four o'clock, in dainty talk,
Lords and lovely ladies walk, | With a gentle dignity,
From the Green to Trinity.
And at five o'clock they take,
In a Caf', tea and cake,
Then they call a carriage, and
Drive back into fairyland. | octave |
George MacDonald | Translations. - Hymns To The Night. (From Novalis.) | I.
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light, with its colours, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, ... | I.
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light, with its colours, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, ... | Still undeciphered lay the endless Night--
The solemn symbol of a far-off Might.
The old world began to decline. The pleasure-garden of the young race withered away; up into opener regions and desolate, forsaking his childhood, struggled the growing man. The gods vanished with their retinue. Nature stood alone and life... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon A Gentlewoman With A Sweet Voice. | So long you did not sing or touch your lute,
We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.
But when your playing and your voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin. | So long you did not sing or touch your lute, | We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.
But when your playing and your voice came in,
'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin. | quatrain |
Alfred Castner King | The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains. | The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,
In gorge and in ca'on it hovers and dwells;
Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,
Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.
The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,
Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves
Descend from the mountain peaks, ... | The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,
In gorge and in ca'on it hovers and dwells; | Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,
Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.
The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,
Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves
Descend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant--
Created for freemen, but never for slaves. | octave |
William Wordsworth | Sonnets Upon The Punishment Of Death - In Series, 1839 ' II - Tenderly Do We Feel By Nature's Law | Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law
For worst offenders: though the heart will heave
With indignation, deeply moved we grieve,
In after thought, for Him who stood in awe
Neither of God nor man, and only saw,
Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned
On proud temptations, till the victim groaned
Under the steel his hand ... | Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law
For worst offenders: though the heart will heave
With indignation, deeply moved we grieve,
In after thought, for Him who stood in awe | Neither of God nor man, and only saw,
Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned
On proud temptations, till the victim groaned
Under the steel his hand had dared to draw.
But oh, restrain compassion, if its course,
As oft befalls, prevent or turn aside
Judgments and aims and acts whose higher source
Is sympathy with the ... | sonnet |
Jonathan Swift | Oranges | Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal,
And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale;
Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup,
They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. | Come buy my fine oranges, sauce for your veal, | And charming, when squeezed in a pot of brown ale;
Well roasted, with sugar and wine in a cup,
They'll make a sweet bishop when gentlefolks sup. | quatrain |
Arthur Hugh Clough | The Clergyman's Second Tale | Edward and Jane a married couple were,
And fonder she of him or he of her
Was hard to say; their wedlock had begun
When in one year they both were twenty-one;
And friends, who would not sanction, left them free.
He gentle-born, nor his inferior she,
And neither rich; to the newly-wedded boy,
A great Insurance Office fo... | Edward and Jane a married couple were,
And fonder she of him or he of her
Was hard to say; their wedlock had begun
When in one year they both were twenty-one;
And friends, who would not sanction, left them free.
He gentle-born, nor his inferior she,
And neither rich; to the newly-wedded boy,
A great Insurance Office fo... | Unmarked, and tracked him in his solitude.
And not in vain, alas!
The days went by and found him in the snare.
But soon a letter full of tenderest care
Came from his wife, the little daughter too
In a large hand the exercise was new
To her papa her love and kisses sent.
Into his very heart and soul it went.
Forth on th... | free_verse |
Richard Le Gallienne | On The Morals Of Poets | One says he is immoral, and points out
Warm sin in ruddy specks upon his soul:
Bigot, one folly of the man you flout
Is more to God than thy lean life is whole. | One says he is immoral, and points out | Warm sin in ruddy specks upon his soul:
Bigot, one folly of the man you flout
Is more to God than thy lean life is whole. | quatrain |
Theodosia Garrison | The Days | I call my years back, I, grown old,
Recall them day by day;
And some are dressed in cloth o' gold
And some in humble grey.
And those in gold glance scornfully
Or pass me unawares;
But those in grey come close to me
And take my hands in theirs. | I call my years back, I, grown old,
Recall them day by day; | And some are dressed in cloth o' gold
And some in humble grey.
And those in gold glance scornfully
Or pass me unawares;
But those in grey come close to me
And take my hands in theirs. | octave |
Edwin C. Ranck | Alas. | He led her out across the sand,
And by her side did sit:
He asked to hold her little hand,
She sweetly answered, "Nit." | He led her out across the sand, | And by her side did sit:
He asked to hold her little hand,
She sweetly answered, "Nit." | quatrain |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - III - Cistertian Monastery | "Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,
"More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed,
"More safely rests, dies happier, is freed
"Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal
"A brighter crown." On yon Cistertian wall
'That' confident assurance may be read;
And, to like shelter, from the world have fled
In... | "Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,
"More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed,
"More safely rests, dies happier, is freed
"Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal | "A brighter crown." On yon Cistertian wall
'That' confident assurance may be read;
And, to like shelter, from the world have fled
Increasing multitudes. The potent call
Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires;
Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee
Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty,
A gentler life spreads r... | sonnet |
Charles Stuart Calverley | Laura Matilda's Dirge. | FROM 'REJECTED ADDRESSES.'
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus' summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
Softly slept the dome of Drury
O'er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto's sister-fury
Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fi... | FROM 'REJECTED ADDRESSES.'
Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus' summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.
Softly slept the dome of Drury
O'er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto's sister-fury
Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.
Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fi... | By the Fates from Orcus beckon'd,
Clouds envelop Drury Lane.
Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.
Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part.
NAENIA.
O... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | All Things Run Well For The Righteous. | Adverse and prosperous fortunes both work on
Here, for the righteous man's salvation;
Be he oppos'd, or be he not withstood,
All serve to th' augmentation of his good. | Adverse and prosperous fortunes both work on | Here, for the righteous man's salvation;
Be he oppos'd, or be he not withstood,
All serve to th' augmentation of his good. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CXIV. Scholastic. | Birch and green holly, boys,
Birch and green holly.
If you get beaten, boys,
'Twill be your own folly. | Birch and green holly, boys, | Birch and green holly.
If you get beaten, boys,
'Twill be your own folly. | quatrain |
Thomas Hood | Midnight. | Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep
Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
The mighty city under thy full tide;
Making a silent palace for old Sleep,
Like his own temple under the hush'd deep,
Where all the busy day he doth abide,
And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide
His dusky wings, whence the cold water... | Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep
Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
The mighty city under thy full tide;
Making a silent palace for old Sleep, | Like his own temple under the hush'd deep,
Where all the busy day he doth abide,
And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide
His dusky wings, whence the cold waters sweep!
How peacefully the living millions lie!
Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells;
There is no breath - no living stir - no cry
No tread of foot ... | sonnet |
James McIntyre | Will Carleton. | In homely apparel one
Clothes farming songs Will Carleton,
But they have a manly ring
And we his praises hearty sing. | In homely apparel one | Clothes farming songs Will Carleton,
But they have a manly ring
And we his praises hearty sing. | quatrain |
Henry Lawson | The Stranded Ship (The 'Vincennes') | 'Twas the glowing log of a picnic fire where a red light should not be,
Or the curtained glow of a sick room light in a window that faced the sea.
But the Manly lights seemed the Sydney lights, and the bluffs as the 'Heads' were seen;
And the Manly beach was the channel then'and the captain steered between.
The croaker... | 'Twas the glowing log of a picnic fire where a red light should not be,
Or the curtained glow of a sick room light in a window that faced the sea.
But the Manly lights seemed the Sydney lights, and the bluffs as the 'Heads' were seen;
And the Manly beach was the channel then'and the captain steered between.
The croaker... | She turned her side to the pounding seas and the foam glared over the rails,
It seemed her fate to be sold and stripped, and broken by winter gales.
But they sent strong gear, and they sent the gangs, and they sent her a man who knew,
And the tugs came nosing round from the Heads to see what a tug could do;
The four-to... | free_verse |
Alexander Pope | To A Lady, With The 'Temple Of Fame.' | What's fame with men, by custom of the nation,
Is call'd, in women, only reputation:
About them both why keep we such a pother?
Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other. | What's fame with men, by custom of the nation, | Is call'd, in women, only reputation:
About them both why keep we such a pother?
Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other. | quatrain |
Thomas Hardy | Leipzig | (1813)
Scene: The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.
"Old Norbert with the flat blue cap
A German said to be -
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
Your eyes blink absently?" -
- "Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet
Of my mother her voice and mien
When she used to sing... | (1813)
Scene: The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.
"Old Norbert with the flat blue cap
A German said to be -
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
Your eyes blink absently?" -
- "Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet
Of my mother her voice and mien
When she used to sing... | While the belt of flames from the enemy's lines
Flared nigher him yet and nigher.
"Three sky-lights then from the girdling trine
Told, 'Ready!' As they rose
Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign
For bleeding Europe's woes.
"'Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night
Glowed still and steadily;
And the Three rejoi... | free_verse |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Unwarned. | 'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
No station in the day?
'T was not thy wont to hinder so, --
Retrieve thine industry.
'T is noon, my little maid, alas!
And art thou sleeping yet?
The lily waiting to be wed,
The bee, dost thou forget?
My little maid, 't is night; alas,
That night should be to thee
Instead of mornin... | 'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
No station in the day?
'T was not thy wont to hinder so, --
Retrieve thine industry. | 'T is noon, my little maid, alas!
And art thou sleeping yet?
The lily waiting to be wed,
The bee, dost thou forget?
My little maid, 't is night; alas,
That night should be to thee
Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached
Thy little plan to me,
Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet,
I might have aided thee. | sonnet |
Eric Mackay | Fairies. | VII.
Fairies.
Glory endures when calumny hath fled;
And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise,
To all who hold a trust beyond the dead,
And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise,
With cheerful hearts or wildly-weeping eyes.
They come and go when children are in bed
To gladden them with dreams from out the skies
And... | VII.
Fairies.
Glory endures when calumny hath fled;
And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise,
To all who hold a trust beyond the dead, | And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise,
With cheerful hearts or wildly-weeping eyes.
They come and go when children are in bed
To gladden them with dreams from out the skies
And sanctify all tears that they have shed!
Fairies are wing'd for wandering to and fro.
They live in legends; they survive the Greeks.
Wisdom i... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Huncks. Epig. | Huncks has no money, he does swear or say,
About him, when the tavern's shot's to pay.
If he has none in 's pockets, trust me, Huncks
Has none at home in coffers, desks, or trunks. | Huncks has no money, he does swear or say, | About him, when the tavern's shot's to pay.
If he has none in 's pockets, trust me, Huncks
Has none at home in coffers, desks, or trunks. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCXLIII. Charms. | A Thatcher of Thatchwood went to Thatchet a thatching;
Did a thatcher of Thatchwood go to Thatchet a thatching?
If a thatcher of Thatchwood went to Thatchet a thatching,
Where's the thatching the thatcher of Thatchwood has thatch'd? | A Thatcher of Thatchwood went to Thatchet a thatching; | Did a thatcher of Thatchwood go to Thatchet a thatching?
If a thatcher of Thatchwood went to Thatchet a thatching,
Where's the thatching the thatcher of Thatchwood has thatch'd? | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | How Roses Came Red. | 'Tis said, as Cupid danc'd among
The gods he down the nectar flung,
Which on the white rose being shed
Made it for ever after red. | 'Tis said, as Cupid danc'd among | The gods he down the nectar flung,
Which on the white rose being shed
Made it for ever after red. | quatrain |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | The Best. | When head and heart are busy, say,
What better can be found?
Who neither loves nor goes astray,
Were better under ground. | When head and heart are busy, say, | What better can be found?
Who neither loves nor goes astray,
Were better under ground. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | The White Heat. | Dare you see a soul at the white heat?
Then crouch within the door.
Red is the fire's common tint;
But when the vivid ore
Has sated flame's conditions,
Its quivering substance plays
Without a color but the light
Of unanointed blaze.
Least village boasts its blacksmith,
Whose anvil's even din
Stands symbol for the finer... | Dare you see a soul at the white heat?
Then crouch within the door.
Red is the fire's common tint;
But when the vivid ore
Has sated flame's conditions, | Its quivering substance plays
Without a color but the light
Of unanointed blaze.
Least village boasts its blacksmith,
Whose anvil's even din
Stands symbol for the finer forge
That soundless tugs within,
Refining these impatient ores
With hammer and with blaze,
Until the designated light
Repudiate the forge. | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | On The Sight Of A Manse In The South Of Scotland | Say, ye far-traveled clouds, far-seeing hills
Among the happiest-looking homes of men
Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings, does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that m... | Say, ye far-traveled clouds, far-seeing hills
Among the happiest-looking homes of men
Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,
On airy upland, and by forest rills, | And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills
His sky-born warblings, does aught meet your ken
More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours
To his high charge, and truly serving God,... | sonnet |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning | Sonnets From The Portuguese II | But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said, Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee, that if I had died,
The death-weights, placed there, would have s... | But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said, Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse | So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee, that if I had died,
The death-weights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay' is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
... | sonnet |
Michael Drayton | Amour 34 | My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,
Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,
Where my poor soule, the Barke of sorrow, lyes,
Left to the mercy of the waues and winde.
See where she flotes, laden with purest loue,
Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to proue,
Then so t... | My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes,
Into the Ocean of a troubled minde,
Where my poor soule, the Barke of sorrow, lyes,
Left to the mercy of the waues and winde. | See where she flotes, laden with purest loue,
Which those fayre Ilands of thy lookes affoord,
Desiring yet a thousand deaths to proue,
Then so to cast her Ballase ouerboard.
See how her sayles be rent, her tacklings worne,
Her Cable broke, her surest Anchor lost:
Her Marryners doe leaue her all forlorne,
Yet how shee b... | sonnet |
Edward Shanks | Song: Love in the Open Air. | I'll love you in the open air
But stuffy rooms and blazing fires
And mirrors with familiar stare
Cloak and befoul my high desires.
The dearest day that I have known
Was in the fields, when driving rain
Was like a veil around us thrown,
A grey close veil without a stain.
The young oak-tree was stripped and bare
But nake... | I'll love you in the open air
But stuffy rooms and blazing fires
And mirrors with familiar stare
Cloak and befoul my high desires.
The dearest day that I have known | Was in the fields, when driving rain
Was like a veil around us thrown,
A grey close veil without a stain.
The young oak-tree was stripped and bare
But naked twigs a shelter made,
Where curious cows came round to stare
And stood astonished and dismayed.
Let it be rain or summer sun,
Smell of wet earth or scent of flower... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | A Winter Prayer. | Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
The slow dim rain and fog athwart;
Through east winds keen with wrong and lies
Come and lift up my hopeless heart.
Come through the sickness and the pain,
The sore unrest that tosses still;
Through aching dark that hides the gain
Come and arouse my fainting will.
Come through th... | Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
The slow dim rain and fog athwart;
Through east winds keen with wrong and lies
Come and lift up my hopeless heart.
Come through the sickness and the pain,
The sore unrest that tosses still; | Through aching dark that hides the gain
Come and arouse my fainting will.
Come through the prate of foolish words,
The science with no God behind;
Through all the pangs of untuned chords
Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.
Through all the fears that spirits bow
Of what hath been, or may befall,
Come down and talk with me, ... | free_verse |
Jean Blewett | The Ploughman. | Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
My father, tiller of the soil,
Bequeathed them to me with my name.
Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
And these two brown and sinewy hands,
Methinks, were never white or soft.
I earn my bread and know it... | Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
My father, tiller of the soil,
Bequeathed them to me with my name.
Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
And these two brown and sinewy hands,
Methinks, were never white or soft.
I earn my bread and know it... | My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
My independence free and bold -
Mine is the richest dower, I hold,
And ploughman is a noble name.
Nor think me all uncouth and rough,
For, as I turn the furrows o'er,
Far clearer than the threshing-floor
I see the tender growing stuff.
A lab'rer, I, the long day through;
The lonely s... | free_verse |
Yehuda Amichai | My Child Wafts Peace | My child wafts peace.
When I lean over him,
It is not just the smell of soap.
All the people were children wafting peace.
(And in the whole land, not even one
Millstone remained that still turned).
Oh, the land torn like clothes
That can't be mended.
Hard, lonely fathers even in the cave of the Makhpela*
Childless sile... | My child wafts peace.
When I lean over him,
It is not just the smell of soap.
All the people were children wafting peace. | (And in the whole land, not even one
Millstone remained that still turned).
Oh, the land torn like clothes
That can't be mended.
Hard, lonely fathers even in the cave of the Makhpela*
Childless silence.
My child wafts peace.
His mother's womb promised him
What God cannot
Promise us. | sonnet |
Alexander Pope | Epitaph V. Intended For Mr Rowe, In Westminster Abbey. | Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust:
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole t... | Thy relics, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,
And sacred place by Dryden's awful dust: | Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes.
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest!
Blest in thy genius, in thy love, too, blest!
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies
What a whole thankless land to his denies. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Upon Parrat. | Parrat protests 'tis he, and only he
Can teach a man the art of memory:
Believe him not; for he forgot it quite,
Being drunk, who 'twas that can'd his ribs last night. | Parrat protests 'tis he, and only he | Can teach a man the art of memory:
Believe him not; for he forgot it quite,
Being drunk, who 'twas that can'd his ribs last night. | quatrain |
William Blake | The Sick Rose | O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy. | O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm, | That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Power. | You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer, --
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor. | You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite | Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer, --
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCLVII. Gaffers And Gammers. | A little old man and I fell out;
How shall we bring this matter about?
Bring it about as well as you can,
Get you gone, you little old man! | A little old man and I fell out; | How shall we bring this matter about?
Bring it about as well as you can,
Get you gone, you little old man! | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXX. Lullabies. | Hushy baby, my doll, I pray you don't cry,
And I'll give you some bread and some milk by and bye;
Or, perhaps you like custard, or may-be a tart, -
Then to either you're welcome, with all my whole heart. | Hushy baby, my doll, I pray you don't cry, | And I'll give you some bread and some milk by and bye;
Or, perhaps you like custard, or may-be a tart, -
Then to either you're welcome, with all my whole heart. | quatrain |
William Butler Yeats | Sweet Dancer | The girl goes dancing there
On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth
Grass plot of the garden;
Escaped from bitter youth,
Escaped out of her crowd,
Or out of her black cloud.
i(Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!)
If strange men come from the house
To lead her away, do not say
That she is happy being crazy;
Lead them gently astra... | The girl goes dancing there
On the leaf-sown, new-mown, smooth
Grass plot of the garden;
Escaped from bitter youth, | Escaped out of her crowd,
Or out of her black cloud.
i(Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!)
If strange men come from the house
To lead her away, do not say
That she is happy being crazy;
Lead them gently astray;
Let her finish her dance,
Let her finish her dance.
i(Ah, dancer, ah, sweet dancer.!) | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | A Little While | A little while when I am gone
My life will live in music after me,
As spun foam lifted and borne on
After the wave is lost in the full sea.
A while these nights and days will burn
In song with the bright frailty of foam,
Living in light before they turn
Back to the nothingness that is their home. | A little while when I am gone
My life will live in music after me, | As spun foam lifted and borne on
After the wave is lost in the full sea.
A while these nights and days will burn
In song with the bright frailty of foam,
Living in light before they turn
Back to the nothingness that is their home. | octave |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Wind Of Winter | The Winter Wind, the wind of death,
Who knocked upon my door,
Now through the key-hole entereth,
Invisible and hoar;
He breathes around his icy breath
And treads the flickering floor.
I heard him, wandering in the night,
Tap at my window pane,
With ghostly fingers, snowy white,
I heard him tug in vain,
Until the shudde... | The Winter Wind, the wind of death,
Who knocked upon my door,
Now through the key-hole entereth,
Invisible and hoar;
He breathes around his icy breath
And treads the flickering floor.
I heard him, wandering in the night,
Tap at my window pane,
With ghostly fingers, snowy white,
I heard him tug in vain,
Until the shudde... | Like some wild babe that greets with noise
Its father home who storms,
With rosy gestures that rejoice
And crimson kiss that warms.
Now in the hearth he sits and, drowned
Among the ashes, blows;
Or through the room goes stealing 'round
On cautious-stepping toes,
Deep mantled in the drowsy sound
Of night that sleets and... | free_verse |
William Butler Yeats | The Choice | The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's ... | The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work, | And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse. | octave |
William Browne | Visions - Sonnet - 4 | A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play
The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,
Methought I saw, upon a summer's day,
Take up a little satyr in a wood,
All masterless forlorn as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his own blood,
On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow ... | A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play
The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,
Methought I saw, upon a summer's day, | Take up a little satyr in a wood,
All masterless forlorn as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his own blood,
On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him;
But with the god he long time had not been,
Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot,
And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd between
Pan and all good befell the po... | sonnet |
John Clare | The Maple Tree | The maple with its tassel flowers of green,
That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed,
Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen,
Of yellowish hue, yet beautifully green;
Bark ribbed like corderoy in seamy screed,
That farther up the stem is smoother seen,
Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowers
Up each s... | The maple with its tassel flowers of green,
That turns to red a staghorn-shaped seed,
Just spreading out its scolloped leaves is seen,
Of yellowish hue, yet beautifully green; | Bark ribbed like corderoy in seamy screed,
That farther up the stem is smoother seen,
Where the white hemlock with white umbel flowers
Up each spread stoven to the branches towers;
And moss around the stoven spreads, dark green,
And blotched leaved orchis, and the blue bell flowers;
Thickly they grow and neath the leav... | sonnet |
Oliver Herford | Napoleon | I like to draw Napoleon best
Because one hand is in his vest,
The other hand behind his back.
(For drawing hands I have no knack.) | I like to draw Napoleon best | Because one hand is in his vest,
The other hand behind his back.
(For drawing hands I have no knack.) | quatrain |
John Alexander McCrae | In Due Season | If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: ... | If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought, | And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone." | octave |
Henry John Newbolt, Sir | Against Oblivion | Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime
Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing! | Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime | Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing! | octave |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Dunes | Far as the eye can see, in domes and spires,
Buttress and curve, ruins of shifting sand,
In whose wild making wind and sea took hand,
The white dunes stretch. The wind, that never tires,
Striving for strange effects that he admires,
Changes their form from time to time; the land
Forever passive to his mad demand,
And t... | Far as the eye can see, in domes and spires,
Buttress and curve, ruins of shifting sand,
In whose wild making wind and sea took hand,
The white dunes stretch. The wind, that never tires, | Striving for strange effects that he admires,
Changes their form from time to time; the land
Forever passive to his mad demand,
And to the sea's, who with the wind conspires.
Here, as on towers of desolate cities, bay
And wire-grass grow, wherein no insect cries,
Only a bird, the swallow of the sea,
That homes in sand.... | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | Primavera Mia | As kings who see their little life-day pass,
Take off the heavy ermine and the crown,
So had the trees that autumn-time laid down
Their golden garments on the faded grass,
When I, who watched the seasons in the glass
Of mine own thoughts, saw all the autumn's brown
Leap into life and don a sunny gown
Of leafage such as... | As kings who see their little life-day pass,
Take off the heavy ermine and the crown,
So had the trees that autumn-time laid down
Their golden garments on the faded grass, | When I, who watched the seasons in the glass
Of mine own thoughts, saw all the autumn's brown
Leap into life and don a sunny gown
Of leafage such as happy April has.
Great spring came singing upward from the south;
For in my heart, far carried on the wind,
Your words like winged seeds took root and grew,
And all the wo... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | "Two Swimmers Wrestled On The Spar" | Two swimmers wrestled on the spar
Until the morning sun,
When one turned smiling to the land.
O God, the other one!
The stray ships passing spied a face
Upon the waters borne,
With eyes in death still begging raised,
And hands beseeching thrown. | Two swimmers wrestled on the spar
Until the morning sun, | When one turned smiling to the land.
O God, the other one!
The stray ships passing spied a face
Upon the waters borne,
With eyes in death still begging raised,
And hands beseeching thrown. | octave |
William Wordsworth | Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - XXVIII. - The Column Intended By Buonaparte For A Triumphal Edifice In Milan, Now Lying By The Way-Side In The Simplon Pass | Ambition, following down this far-famed slope
Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun,
While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won
Perchance, in future ages, here may stop;
Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope
By admonition from this prostrate Stone!
Memento uninscribed of Pride o'erthrown;
Vanity's hieroglyphic; a ... | Ambition, following down this far-famed slope
Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun,
While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won
Perchance, in future ages, here may stop; | Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope
By admonition from this prostrate Stone!
Memento uninscribed of Pride o'erthrown;
Vanity's hieroglyphic; a choice trope
In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the Rock,
Rest where thy course was stayed by Power divine!
The Soul transported sees, from hint of thine,
Crimes which t... | sonnet |
James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis) | Life's Hebe | In the early morning-shine
Of a certain day divine,
I beheld a Maiden stand
With a pitcher in her hand;
Whence she poured into a cup
Until it was half filled up
Nectar that was golden light
In the cup of crystal bright.
And the first who took the cup
With pure water filled it up;
As he drank then, it was more
Ruddy gol... | In the early morning-shine
Of a certain day divine,
I beheld a Maiden stand
With a pitcher in her hand;
Whence she poured into a cup
Until it was half filled up
Nectar that was golden light
In the cup of crystal bright.
And the first who took the cup
With pure water filled it up;
As he drank then, it was more
Ruddy gol... | With the white milk filled it up;
What he drank at first seemed blood,
Then turned thick and brown as mud:
And he moved away as slow
As a weary ox may go.
But the next who took the cup
With sweet honey filled it up;
Nathless that which he did drink
Was thin fluid black as ink:
As he went he stumbled, soon,
And lay stil... | free_verse |
Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny) | To ---- | When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming,
And my young heart knew hope without a fear.
When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of ... | When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
And the wild winds sang requiem to the year; | But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming,
And my young heart knew hope without a fear.
When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more. | octave |
Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa | Sonnet VI. | As a bad orator, badly o'er-book-skilled,
Doth overflow his purpose with made heat,
And, like a clock, winds with withoutness willed
What should have been an inner instinct's feat;
Or as a prose-wit, harshly poet turned,
Lacking the subtler music in his measure,
With useless care labours but to be spurned,
Courting in ... | As a bad orator, badly o'er-book-skilled,
Doth overflow his purpose with made heat,
And, like a clock, winds with withoutness willed
What should have been an inner instinct's feat; | Or as a prose-wit, harshly poet turned,
Lacking the subtler music in his measure,
With useless care labours but to be spurned,
Courting in alien speech the Muse's pleasure;
I study how to love or how to hate,
Estranged by consciousness from sentiment,
With a thought feeling forced to be sedate
Even when the feeling's n... | sonnet |
Jean Ingelow | Wishing. | When I reflect how little I have done,
And add to that how little I have seen,
Then furthermore how little I have won
Of joy, or good, how little known, or been:
I long for other life more full, more keen,
And yearn to change with such as well have run -
Yet reason mocks me - nay, the soul, I ween,
Granted her choice ... | When I reflect how little I have done,
And add to that how little I have seen,
Then furthermore how little I have won
Of joy, or good, how little known, or been: | I long for other life more full, more keen,
And yearn to change with such as well have run -
Yet reason mocks me - nay, the soul, I ween,
Granted her choice would dare to change with none;
No, - not to feel, as Blondel when his lay
Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it -
No, - not to do, as Eustace on the... | sonnet |
Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) | To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXVII. | Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.
HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.
My thoughts in fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents delay:
E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate
This present li... | Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.
HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.
My thoughts in fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents delay:
E'en now she speaks of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible hour when Fate
This present li... | O fairest miracle! most fortunate mind!
O unexampled beauty, stately, rare!
Whence lent too late, too soon, alas! rejoin'd.
Hers is the crown and palm of good deeds there,
Who to the world so eminent and clear
Made her great virtue and my passion here.
MACGREGOR.
My thoughts were wont with sentiment so sweet
To meditat... | free_verse |
Walt Whitman | The Runner | On a flat road runs the well-train'd runner;
He is lean and sinewy, with muscular legs;
He is thinly clothed he leans forward as he runs,
With lightly closed fists, and arms partially rais'd. | On a flat road runs the well-train'd runner; | He is lean and sinewy, with muscular legs;
He is thinly clothed he leans forward as he runs,
With lightly closed fists, and arms partially rais'd. | quatrain |
Robert Burns | Poem On Pastoral Poetry. | Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
Mid a' thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang,
To death or marriage;
S... | Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
Mid a' thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang,
To death or marriage;
S... | But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters;
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grac... | free_verse |
Victor James Daley | The Gods | Last night, as one who hears a tragic jest,
I woke from dreams, half-laughing, half in tears;
Methought that I had journeyed in the spheres
And stood upon the Planet of the Blest!
And found thereon a folk who prayed with zest
Exceeding, and through all their painful years,
Like strong souls struggled on, 'mid hopes and... | Last night, as one who hears a tragic jest,
I woke from dreams, half-laughing, half in tears;
Methought that I had journeyed in the spheres
And stood upon the Planet of the Blest! | And found thereon a folk who prayed with zest
Exceeding, and through all their painful years,
Like strong souls struggled on, 'mid hopes and fears;
'Where dwell the gods,' they said, 'we shall find rest.'
The gods? What gods, I thought, are these who so
Inspire their worshippers with faith that flowers
Immortal, and wh... | sonnet |
Anna Seward | Sonnet LXIX. To A Young Lady, Purposing To Marry A Man Of Immoral Character In The Hope Of His Reformation. | Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem
Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.
Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,
His taste for virtue? - Ah, the sensual stream
Has flow'd too long. - What charms can so entice,
What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame
The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,
T... | Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeem
Yon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.
Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,
His taste for virtue? - Ah, the sensual stream
Has flow'd too long. - What charms can so entice, | What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shame
The rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,
That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame? -
[1]Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,
The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,
And thinks he soon shall find the gulph below
A channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er. - ... | free_verse |
Oliver Herford | Hiram Maxim | From Hiram Maxim's hair you'd think
His specialty was spilling ink--
You'd never dream he'd spilt more blood
Than any one man since the Flood. | From Hiram Maxim's hair you'd think | His specialty was spilling ink--
You'd never dream he'd spilt more blood
Than any one man since the Flood. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | Thy Heart | Make not of thy heart a casket,
Opening seldom, quick to close;
But of bread a wide-mouthed basket,
Or a cup that overflows. | Make not of thy heart a casket, | Opening seldom, quick to close;
But of bread a wide-mouthed basket,
Or a cup that overflows. | quatrain |
Walt Whitman | City Of Ships | City of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful, sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!)
City of the world! (for all races are here;
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, wh... | City of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful, sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!)
City of the world! (for all races are here;
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;) | City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out, with eddies and foam!
City of wharves and stores! city of tall fa'ades of marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Apollo. | Thou mighty lord and master of the lyre,
Unshorn Apollo, come and re-inspire
My fingers so, the lyric-strings to move,
That I may play and sing a hymn to Love. | Thou mighty lord and master of the lyre, | Unshorn Apollo, come and re-inspire
My fingers so, the lyric-strings to move,
That I may play and sing a hymn to Love. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Stars | These--the bright symbols of man's hope and fame,
In which he reads his blessing or his curse--
Are syllables with which God speaks His name
In the vast utterance of the universe. | These--the bright symbols of man's hope and fame, | In which he reads his blessing or his curse--
Are syllables with which God speaks His name
In the vast utterance of the universe. | quatrain |
William Schwenck Gilbert | A Classical Revival | At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.
We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the CHOREUTAE of that culti... | At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.
We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the CHOREUTAE of that culti... | In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic
(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind),
There they'd satisfy their twist on a RECHERCHE cold [Greek text which cannot be reproduced],
Which is what they called their lunch - and so may you, if you're inclined.
As they gradually got on, they'd [Greek tex... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Women, To Hide Their Teeth If They Be Rotten Or Rusty. | Close keep your lips, if that you mean
To be accounted inside clean:
For if you cleave them we shall see
There in your teeth much leprosy. | Close keep your lips, if that you mean | To be accounted inside clean:
For if you cleave them we shall see
There in your teeth much leprosy. | quatrain |
Matthew Prior | Written In An Ovid | Ovid is the surest guide
You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray. | Ovid is the surest guide | You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray. | quatrain |
Jonathan Swift | Written In A Lady's Ivory Table-Book, 1698 | Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.
Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;"
Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"
Here, in beau-spell... | Peruse my leaves thro' ev'ry part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light;
Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.
Here you may read, "Dear charming saint;"
Beneath, "A new receipt for paint:"
Here, in beau-spell... | Here, "Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom!"
There, "A safe way to use perfume:"
Here, a page fill'd with billets-doux;
On t'other side, "Laid out for shoes" -
"Madam, I die without your grace" -
"Item, for half a yard of lace."
Who that had wit would place it here,
For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer?
To think that your brain... | free_verse |
Matthew Prior | Epigram - Thy Nags, The Leanest Things Alive | Thy nags, the leanest things alive,
So very hard thou lovest to drive,
I heard thy anxious coachman say
It costs thee more in whips than hay. | Thy nags, the leanest things alive, | So very hard thou lovest to drive,
I heard thy anxious coachman say
It costs thee more in whips than hay. | quatrain |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Chuld Name. - Book Of Paradise. The Favoured Beasts. | Or beasts there have been chosen four
To come to Paradise,
And there with saints for evermore
They dwell in happy wise.
Amongst them all the Ass stands first;
He comes with joyous stride,
For to the Prophet-City erst
Did Jesus on him ride.
Half timid next a Wolf doth creep,
To whom Mahomet spake
"Spoil not the poor man... | Or beasts there have been chosen four
To come to Paradise,
And there with saints for evermore
They dwell in happy wise.
Amongst them all the Ass stands first;
He comes with joyous stride, | For to the Prophet-City erst
Did Jesus on him ride.
Half timid next a Wolf doth creep,
To whom Mahomet spake
"Spoil not the poor man of his sheep,
The rich man's thou mayst take."
And then the brave and faithful Hound,
Who by his master kept,
And slept with him the slumbers sound
The seven sleepers slept.
Abuherrira's ... | free_verse |
John Alexander McCrae | Disarmament | One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair World's light,
We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice -- the million spake as one --
"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay b... | One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair World's light, | We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice -- the million spake as one --
"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay by the sword! Its work and ours is done." | octave |
Henry John Newbolt, Sir | Midway | Turn back, my Soul, no longer set
Thy peace upon the years to come
Turn back, the land of thy regret
Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb.
There are the voices, there the scenes
That make thy life in living truth
A tale of heroes and of queens,
Fairer than all the hopes of youth. | Turn back, my Soul, no longer set
Thy peace upon the years to come | Turn back, the land of thy regret
Holds nothing doubtful, nothing dumb.
There are the voices, there the scenes
That make thy life in living truth
A tale of heroes and of queens,
Fairer than all the hopes of youth. | octave |
Michael Drayton | Sonnets: Idea XVIII To The Celestial Numbers | To this our world, to learning, and to heaven,
Three nines there are, to every one a nine;
One number of the earth, the other both divine;
One woman now makes three odd numbers even.
Nine orders first of angels be in heaven;
Nine muses do with learning still frequent:
These with the gods are ever resident.
Nine worthy ... | To this our world, to learning, and to heaven,
Three nines there are, to every one a nine;
One number of the earth, the other both divine;
One woman now makes three odd numbers even. | Nine orders first of angels be in heaven;
Nine muses do with learning still frequent:
These with the gods are ever resident.
Nine worthy women to the world were given.
My worthy one to these nine worthies addeth;
And my fair Muse, one Muse unto the nine.
And my good angel, in my soul divine!--
With one more order these... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | A Gravestone Upon The Floor In The Cloisters Of Worcester Cathedral | "Miserrimus," and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;
Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,
That solitary word, to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
'Who' chose his epitaph? Himself alone
Could thus have dared the g... | "Miserrimus," and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;
Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,
That solitary word, to separate | From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
'Who' chose his epitaph? Himself alone
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate,
And claim, among the dead, this awful crown;
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own
Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place,
That every foot ... | sonnet |
William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham) | The Christ | The good intent of God became the Christ.
And lived on earth--the Living Love of God,
That men might draw to closer touch with heaven,
Since Christ in all the ways of man hath trod. | The good intent of God became the Christ. | And lived on earth--the Living Love of God,
That men might draw to closer touch with heaven,
Since Christ in all the ways of man hath trod. | quatrain |
Matthew Prior | Two Riddles. | Sphinx was a monster that would eat
Whatever stranger she could get,
Unless his ready wit disclosed
The subtile riddle she proposed.
OEdipus was resolved to go
And try what strength of parts would do;
Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate;
Tell me what animal is that
Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at n... | Sphinx was a monster that would eat
Whatever stranger she could get,
Unless his ready wit disclosed
The subtile riddle she proposed.
OEdipus was resolved to go
And try what strength of parts would do;
Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate; | Tell me what animal is that
Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at noon, and three at night?
'Tis Man, said he, who, weak by nature,
At first creeps, like his fellow-creature,
Upon all four; as years accrue,
With sturdy steps he walks on two;
In age at length grows weak and sick,
For his third leg adopts the... | free_verse |
John Clare | To My Mother. | With filial duty I address thee, Mother,
Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses;
Endearing name! no language owns another
That half the tenderness and love expresses;
The very word itself breathes the affection,
Which heaves the bosom of a luckless child
To thank thee, for that care and that protection,
W... | With filial duty I address thee, Mother,
Thou dearest tie which this world's wealth possesses;
Endearing name! no language owns another
That half the tenderness and love expresses; | The very word itself breathes the affection,
Which heaves the bosom of a luckless child
To thank thee, for that care and that protection,
Which once, where fortune frowns, so sweetly smil'd.
Ah, oft fond memory leaves its pillow'd anguish,
To think when in thy arms my sleep was sound;
And now my startled tear oft views... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | The Dream. | Methought last night Love in an anger came
And brought a rod, so whipt me with the same;
Myrtle the twigs were, merely to imply
Love strikes, but 'tis with gentle cruelty.
Patient I was: Love pitiful grew then
And strok'd the stripes, and I was whole again.
Thus, like a bee, Love gentle still doth bring
Honey to salve ... | Methought last night Love in an anger came
And brought a rod, so whipt me with the same; | Myrtle the twigs were, merely to imply
Love strikes, but 'tis with gentle cruelty.
Patient I was: Love pitiful grew then
And strok'd the stripes, and I was whole again.
Thus, like a bee, Love gentle still doth bring
Honey to salve where he before did sting. | octave |
Robert Herrick | The Judgment-Day. | God hides from man the reck'ning day, that he
May fear it ever for uncertainty;
That being ignorant of that one, he may
Expect the coming of it every day. | God hides from man the reck'ning day, that he | May fear it ever for uncertainty;
That being ignorant of that one, he may
Expect the coming of it every day. | quatrain |
Michael Drayton | Sonnets: Idea XLIV | Whilst thus my pen strives to eternise thee,
Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face,
Where in the map of all my misery
Is modelled out the world of my disgrace;
Whilst in despite of tyrannising times,
Medea-like, I make thee young again,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rhymes,
And murther'st virtue with ... | Whilst thus my pen strives to eternise thee,
Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face,
Where in the map of all my misery
Is modelled out the world of my disgrace; | Whilst in despite of tyrannising times,
Medea-like, I make thee young again,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rhymes,
And murther'st virtue with thy coy disdain;
And though in youth my youth untimely perish,
To keep thee from oblivion and the grave,
Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish,
Where I intombed my... | sonnet |
Eric Mackay | Diffidence. | I cannot deck my thought in proud attire,
Or make it fit for thee in any dress,
Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire,
In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire,
Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless.
For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness
And well I know the weakness of the lyre
Which I have striven to sway to... | I cannot deck my thought in proud attire,
Or make it fit for thee in any dress,
Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire,
In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire, | Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless.
For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness
And well I know the weakness of the lyre
Which I have striven to sway to thy caress.
Yet must I quell my tears and calm the smart
Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge
From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's surge.
I must contro... | sonnet |
Alexander Pope | To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu | I
In beauty, or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared:
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To yield to a lady was hard.
II
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied;
So Papists refuse
The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
III
'Twa... | I
In beauty, or wit,
No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared:
But men of discerning
Have thought that in learning
To yield to a lady was hard.
II
Impertinent schools,
With musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied; | So Papists refuse
The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
III
'Twas a woman at first
(Indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree
The laws should decree
To the first possessor the right.
IV
Then bravely, fair dame,
Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belon... | free_verse |
James Stephens | At The Fair (The Rocky Road To Dublin) | The lark shall never come to say
To a gombeen-man, "Good day,"
And the lark shall never cry
To a kindly man, "Good-bye."
See the greedy gombeen-man
Taking everything he can
From man and woman, dog and cat,
And the lark does not like that. | The lark shall never come to say
To a gombeen-man, "Good day," | And the lark shall never cry
To a kindly man, "Good-bye."
See the greedy gombeen-man
Taking everything he can
From man and woman, dog and cat,
And the lark does not like that. | octave |
Robert Herrick | On Himself. | If that my fate has now fulfill'd my year,
And so soon stopt my longer living here;
What was't, ye gods, a dying man to save,
But while he met with his paternal grave!
Though while we living 'bout the world do roam,
We love to rest in peaceful urns at home,
Where we may snug, and close together lie
By the dead bones of... | If that my fate has now fulfill'd my year,
And so soon stopt my longer living here; | What was't, ye gods, a dying man to save,
But while he met with his paternal grave!
Though while we living 'bout the world do roam,
We love to rest in peaceful urns at home,
Where we may snug, and close together lie
By the dead bones of our dear ancestry. | octave |
Jean Ingelow | In The Nursery. | Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?'
'Where? O well, once I went into a deep
Mine, father told of, and a cross man said
He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread.
I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near.
She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'
'Was it like mother's boudoir?'
'Grander fa... | Where do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep?'
'Where? O well, once I went into a deep
Mine, father told of, and a cross man said
He'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread.
I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near.
She said, "You rude boy, Bob, how came you here?"'
'Was it like mother's boudoir?'
'Grander fa... | 'What was it like?'
'A kind of - I can't tell -
A sort of orchard place in a long dell,
With trees all over flowers. And there were birds
Who could do talking, say soft pretty words;
They let me stroke them, and I showed it all
To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call,
"Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened whe... | free_verse |
Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Youth and Age | Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee -
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young? - Ah, woeful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,... | Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee -
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young? - Ah, woeful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,... | When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys! that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known t... | free_verse |
William Shakespeare | The Sonnets I - From fairest creatures we desire increase | From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy fo... | From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory: | But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender... | sonnet |
Matthew Prior | Fair Susan Did Her Wif-Hede Well Menteine - In Chaucer's Style | Fair Susan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates assaulted sore by letchours tweine;
Now, and I read aright that auncient song,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.
Had thilke same tale in other guise been tolde;
Had they been young (pardie) and she been olde,
That, by St. Kit, had wrought much sorer tryal,
F... | Fair Susan did her wif-hede well menteine,
Algates assaulted sore by letchours tweine; | Now, and I read aright that auncient song,
Olde were the paramours, the dame full yong.
Had thilke same tale in other guise been tolde;
Had they been young (pardie) and she been olde,
That, by St. Kit, had wrought much sorer tryal,
Full merveillous, I wrote, were swilk denyal. | octave |
Walter Scott (Sir) | Answer | Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name. | Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! | To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name. | quatrain |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Procemion. | In His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might;
In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the know... | In His blest name, who was His own creation,
Who from all time makes making his vocation;
The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,
Love, confidence, activity, and might; | In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,
Unknown is ever in Reality:
As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,
Thou findest but the known resembling Him;
How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,
Its simile and type it straight discovers
Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,
Where'er thou goest, smil... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Sweetness In Sacrifice. | 'Tis not greatness they require
To be offer'd up by fire;
But 'tis sweetness that doth please
Those Eternal Essences. | 'Tis not greatness they require | To be offer'd up by fire;
But 'tis sweetness that doth please
Those Eternal Essences. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | The Perfume. | To-morrow, Julia, I betimes must rise,
For some small fault to offer sacrifice:
The altar's ready: fire to consume
The fat; breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume. | To-morrow, Julia, I betimes must rise, | For some small fault to offer sacrifice:
The altar's ready: fire to consume
The fat; breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume. | quatrain |
John McCrae | Disarmament | One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair World's light,
We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice, the million spake as one,
"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay by th... | One spake amid the nations, "Let us cease
From darkening with strife the fair World's light, | We who are great in war be great in peace.
No longer let us plead the cause by might."
But from a million British graves took birth
A silent voice, the million spake as one,
"If ye have righted all the wrongs of earth
Lay by the sword! Its work and ours is done." | octave |
Sara Teasdale | Central Park At Dusk | Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream,
While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.
There is no sign of leaf or bud,
A hush is over everything.
Silent as women wait for love,
The world is waiting for the spring. | Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream, | While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.
There is no sign of leaf or bud,
A hush is over everything.
Silent as women wait for love,
The world is waiting for the spring. | octave |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | The Augurs | Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect
Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual,
Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall,
Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect
The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked
Beneath the bandages that hid it all,
And with sharp edgetools oecumenical
The l... | Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect
Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual,
Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall,
Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect | The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked
Beneath the bandages that hid it all,
And with sharp edgetools oecumenical
The leprous carcases of creeds dissect.
As on the night ere Brutus grew divine
The sick-souled augurs found their ox or swine
Heartless; so now too by their after art
In the same Rome, at an unc... | sonnet |
Jean de La Fontaine | The Bird Wounded By An Arrow. | [1]
A bird, with plum'd arrow shot,
In dying case deplored her lot:
'Alas!' she cried, 'the anguish of the thought!
This ruin partly by myself was brought!
Hard-hearted men! from us to borrow
What wings to us the fatal arrow!
But mock us not, ye cruel race,
For you must often take our place.'
The work of half the human... | [1]
A bird, with plum'd arrow shot,
In dying case deplored her lot: | 'Alas!' she cried, 'the anguish of the thought!
This ruin partly by myself was brought!
Hard-hearted men! from us to borrow
What wings to us the fatal arrow!
But mock us not, ye cruel race,
For you must often take our place.'
The work of half the human brothers
Is making arms against the others. | free_verse |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | My Nosegays Are For Captives | My nosegays are for captives;
Dim, long-expectant eyes,
Fingers denied the plucking,
Patient till paradise,
To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer. | My nosegays are for captives;
Dim, long-expectant eyes, | Fingers denied the plucking,
Patient till paradise,
To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer. | octave |
Edna St. Vincent Millay | Sonnet I | Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,--I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with m... | Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,--I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though | From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to... | sonnet |
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