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William Shakespeare | The Sonnets CXV - Those lines that I before have writ do lie | Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st ... | Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. | But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas! why fearing of Time's tyranny,
Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Cro... | sonnet |
Archibald Lampman | Three Flower Petals. | What saw I yesterday walking apart
In a leafy place where the cattle wait?
Something to keep for a charm in my heart -
A little sweet girl in a garden gate.
Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might,
And held for a target to shelter her,
In her little soft fingers, round and white,
The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower.
... | What saw I yesterday walking apart
In a leafy place where the cattle wait?
Something to keep for a charm in my heart -
A little sweet girl in a garden gate.
Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might,
And held for a target to shelter her,
In her little soft fingers, round and white,
The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower. | Laughing she lay on the stone that stands
For a rough-hewn step in that sunny place,
And her yellow hair hung down to her hands,
Shadowing over her dimpled face.
Her eyes like the blue of the sky, made dim
With the might of the sun that looked at her,
Shone laughing over the serried rim,
Golden set, of the sunflower.
L... | free_verse |
Charles Baudelaire | The Enemy | My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once.
I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form t... | My youth was nothing but a black storm
Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.
The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores
Nothing's left of the fruit my garden held once. | I should employ the rake and the plow,
Having reached the autumn of ideas,
To restore this inundated ground
Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.
And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed
Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned
The mystic nourishment that fortifies?
O Sorrow ' O Sorrow ' Time cons... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Roots. Epig. | Roots had no money; yet he went o' the score,
For a wrought purse; can any tell wherefore?
Say, what should Roots do with a purse in print,
That had not gold nor silver to put in't? | Roots had no money; yet he went o' the score, | For a wrought purse; can any tell wherefore?
Say, what should Roots do with a purse in print,
That had not gold nor silver to put in't? | quatrain |
Henry Kendall | The Ballad of Tanna | She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief,
Beneath a weird forest of Tanna;
She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief,
And cursed the dark race of Alkanna.
With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain,
The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain,
And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain.
Oh, the glory ... | She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief,
Beneath a weird forest of Tanna;
She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief,
And cursed the dark race of Alkanna.
With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain,
The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain,
And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain.
Oh, the glory ... | For the men of his people have fought with the foe
Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!'
She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill,
Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill,
'The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?'
Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya!
'Wahina, why linger,' Annatanam said,
'When the t... | free_verse |
Henry Austin Dobson | The Cur''s Progress. | Monsieur the Cur' down the street
Comes with his kind old face,--
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "H'tel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Th'ophile.
He turns, as a rule,... | Monsieur the Cur' down the street
Comes with his kind old face,--
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "H'tel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Th'ophile.
He turns, as a rule,... | And his compliment pays to the "Belle Th'r'se,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cur' gropes
In his tails for a pain d''pice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,
Who is said to be heterodox,
Tha... | free_verse |
Walter Savage Landor | Who Ever Felt As I | Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet. | Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry: | Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet. | octave |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Heri, Cras, Hodie | Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen,
To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between:
Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds. | Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen, | To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between:
Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | The Grass. | The grass so little has to do, --
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine, --
A duchess were too ... | The grass so little has to do, --
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along, | And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine, --
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And d... | free_verse |
Edna St. Vincent Millay | Wild Swans | I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over... | I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before? | Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying! | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Superiority To Fate. | Superiority to fate
Is difficult to learn.
'T is not conferred by any,
But possible to earn
A pittance at a time,
Until, to her surprise,
The soul with strict economy
Subsists till Paradise. | Superiority to fate
Is difficult to learn. | 'T is not conferred by any,
But possible to earn
A pittance at a time,
Until, to her surprise,
The soul with strict economy
Subsists till Paradise. | octave |
Robert von Ranke Graves | To Lucasta On Going To The War, For The Fourth Time | It doesn't matter what's the cause,
What wrong they say we're righting,
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,
When we're to do the fighting!
And since we lads are proud and true,
What else remains to do?
Lucasta, when to France your man
Returns his fourth time, hating war,
Yet laughs as calmly as he can
And flings an o... | It doesn't matter what's the cause,
What wrong they say we're righting,
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,
When we're to do the fighting!
And since we lads are proud and true,
What else remains to do?
Lucasta, when to France your man
Returns his fourth time, hating war, | Yet laughs as calmly as he can
And flings an oath, but says no more,
That is not courage, that's not fear,
Lucasta he's a Fusilier,
And his pride sends him here.
Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray,
And so decide who started
This bloody war, and who's to pay,
But he must be stout-hearted,
Must sit and stake with quie... | free_verse |
Vachel Lindsay | What the Forester Said | The moon is but a candle-glow
That flickers thro' the gloom:
The starry space, a castle hall:
And Earth, the children's room,
Where all night long the old trees stand
To watch the streams asleep:
Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:
Good shepherds guarding sheep. | The moon is but a candle-glow
That flickers thro' the gloom: | The starry space, a castle hall:
And Earth, the children's room,
Where all night long the old trees stand
To watch the streams asleep:
Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:
Good shepherds guarding sheep. | octave |
John Hartley | Sweet Mistress Moore. | Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th' best portion of his life
Ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot.
At schooil together John an me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An nivver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs.
At John shoo smiled,
An aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo lov... | Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th' best portion of his life
Ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot.
At schooil together John an me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An nivver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs.
At John shoo smiled,
An aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo lov... | Aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want,
For Johnny ofttimes gets oth' spree;
He spends his wages in a rant,
An leeaves his wife to pine or dee.
An monny a time awve ligged i' bed,
An cursed my fate for bein poor,
An monny a bitter tear awve shed,
When thinkin ov sweet Mistress Moore.
For shoo's mi life
Is Johnny's wife... | free_verse |
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton) | The Deficit Demon (A Political Ballad) | It was the lunatic poet escaped from the local asylum,
Loudly he twanged on his banjo and sang with his voice like a saw-mill,
While as with fervour he sang there was borne o'er the shuddering wildwood,
Borne on the breath of the poet a flavour of rum and of onions.
He sang of the Deficit Demon that dwelt in the Treasu... | It was the lunatic poet escaped from the local asylum,
Loudly he twanged on his banjo and sang with his voice like a saw-mill,
While as with fervour he sang there was borne o'er the shuddering wildwood,
Borne on the breath of the poet a flavour of rum and of onions.
He sang of the Deficit Demon that dwelt in the Treasu... | Settled his hash in one act and made him to all man a byword,
Sent hin, a raving ex-Premier, to dwell in the shades of oblivion,
And the people put forward a champion known as Sir Patrick the Portly.
As in the midnight the tom-cat who seeketh his love on the house top,
Lifteth his voice up and is struck by the fast whi... | free_verse |
Henry Kendall | Lilith | Strange is the song, and the soul that is singing
Falters because of the vision it sees;
Voice that is not of the living is ringing
Down in the depths where the darkness is clinging,
Even when Noon is the lord of the leas,
Fast, like a curse, to the ghosts of the trees!
Here in a mist that is parted in sunder,
Half wit... | Strange is the song, and the soul that is singing
Falters because of the vision it sees;
Voice that is not of the living is ringing
Down in the depths where the darkness is clinging,
Even when Noon is the lord of the leas,
Fast, like a curse, to the ghosts of the trees!
Here in a mist that is parted in sunder,
Half wit... | Look to thy Saviour, and down on thy knee, man,
Lean on the Lord, as the Zebedee leaned;
Daughter of hell is the neighbour of thee, man
Lilith, of Adam the luminous leman!
Turn to the Christ to be succoured and screened,
Saved from the eyes of a marvellous fiend!
Serpent she is in the shape of a woman,
Brighter than wo... | free_verse |
Michael Drayton | Sonet 2 To the Reader of his Poems | Into these loues who but for passion lookes,
At this first sight, here let him lay them by,
And seeke elsewhere in turning other bookes,
Which better may his labour satisfie.
No far-fetch'd sigh shall euer wound my brest,
Loue from mine eye, a teare shall neuer wring,
Nor in ah-mees my whyning Sonets drest,
(A Libertin... | Into these loues who but for passion lookes,
At this first sight, here let him lay them by,
And seeke elsewhere in turning other bookes,
Which better may his labour satisfie. | No far-fetch'd sigh shall euer wound my brest,
Loue from mine eye, a teare shall neuer wring,
Nor in ah-mees my whyning Sonets drest,
(A Libertine) fantasticklie I sing;
My verse is the true image of my mind,
Euer in motion, still desiring change,
To choyce of all varietie inclin'd,
And in all humors sportiuely I range... | sonnet |
James McIntyre | Lines Sent To Alexander Mclaughlan, Amaranth Station, With A Copy Of My Poems | We send to you these rugged rhymes
In memory of the olden times,
Great chief of our poetic clan,
Admired by all, McLaughlan. | We send to you these rugged rhymes | In memory of the olden times,
Great chief of our poetic clan,
Admired by all, McLaughlan. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Upon Love | Love scorched my finger, but did spare
The burning of my heart,
To signify in love my share
Should be a little part.
Little I love, but if that he
Would but that heat recall,
That joint to ashes should be burnt
Ere I would love at all. | Love scorched my finger, but did spare
The burning of my heart, | To signify in love my share
Should be a little part.
Little I love, but if that he
Would but that heat recall,
That joint to ashes should be burnt
Ere I would love at all. | octave |
Walter Savage Landor | On Seeing A Hair Of Lucretia Borgia | Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust.
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold. | Borgia, thou once wert almost too august | And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust.
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold. | quatrain |
James Joyce | Love Came To Us In Time Gone By | Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played
And one in fear was standing nigh,
For Love at first is all afraid.
We were grave lovers. Love is past
That had his sweet hours many a one;
Welcome to us now at the last
The ways that we shall go upon. | Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played | And one in fear was standing nigh,
For Love at first is all afraid.
We were grave lovers. Love is past
That had his sweet hours many a one;
Welcome to us now at the last
The ways that we shall go upon. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Steam In Sacrifice. | If meat the gods give, I the steam
High-towering will devote to them,
Whose easy natures like it well,
If we the roast have, they the smell. | If meat the gods give, I the steam | High-towering will devote to them,
Whose easy natures like it well,
If we the roast have, they the smell. | quatrain |
John Keats | To Fanny | I cry your mercy, pity, love! aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmasked, and being seen, without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole, all, all, be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss, those hands, those eyes divine,
That wa... | I cry your mercy, pity, love! aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmasked, and being seen, without a blot! | O! let me have thee whole, all, all, be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss, those hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,
Yourself, your soul, in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall,... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - X - Struggle Of The Britons Against The Barbarians | Rise! they 'have' risen: of brave Aneurin ask
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends:
The Spirit of Caractacus descends
Upon the Patriots, animates their task;
Amazement runs before the towering casque
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field
The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield:
Stretched in t... | Rise! they 'have' risen: of brave Aneurin ask
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends:
The Spirit of Caractacus descends
Upon the Patriots, animates their task; | Amazement runs before the towering casque
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field
The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield:
Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask
The Host that followed Urien as he strode
O'er heaps of slain; from Cambrian wood and moss
Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross;
Bards, nurs... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Isle Of Man | Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen,
Grief that devouring waves had caused, or guilt
Which they had witnessed, sway the man who built
This Homestead, placed where nothing could be seen,
Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene?
A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land,
That o'er the channel holds august command,... | Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen,
Grief that devouring waves had caused, or guilt
Which they had witnessed, sway the man who built
This Homestead, placed where nothing could be seen, | Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene?
A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land,
That o'er the channel holds august command,
The dwelling raised, a veteran Marine.
He, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea
To shun the memory of a listless life
That hung between two callings. May no strife
More hurtful here bese... | sonnet |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | The Fox And Huntsman. | Hard 'tis on a fox's traces
To arrive, midst forest-glades;
Hopeless utterly the chase is,
If his flight the huntsman aids.
And so 'tis with many a wonder,
(Why A B make Ab in fact,)
Over which we gape and blunder,
And our head and brains distract. | Hard 'tis on a fox's traces
To arrive, midst forest-glades; | Hopeless utterly the chase is,
If his flight the huntsman aids.
And so 'tis with many a wonder,
(Why A B make Ab in fact,)
Over which we gape and blunder,
And our head and brains distract. | octave |
Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator) | Winter Comes | Winter scourges his horses
Through the North,
His hair is bitter snow
On the great wind.
The trees are weeping leaves
Because the nests are dead,
Because the flowers were nests of scent
And the nests had singing petals
And the flowers and nests are dead.
Your voice brings back the songs
Of every nest,
Your eyes bring b... | Winter scourges his horses
Through the North,
His hair is bitter snow
On the great wind.
The trees are weeping leaves
Because the nests are dead, | Because the flowers were nests of scent
And the nests had singing petals
And the flowers and nests are dead.
Your voice brings back the songs
Of every nest,
Your eyes bring back the sun
Out of the South,
Violets and roses peep
Where you have laughed the snow away
And kissed the snow away,
And in my heart there is a gar... | free_verse |
Sara Teasdale | Debt | What do I owe to you
Who loved me deep and long?
You never gave my spirit wings
Or gave my heart a song.
But oh, to him I loved,
Who loved me not at all,
I owe the open gate
That led through heaven's wall. | What do I owe to you
Who loved me deep and long? | You never gave my spirit wings
Or gave my heart a song.
But oh, to him I loved,
Who loved me not at all,
I owe the open gate
That led through heaven's wall. | octave |
John McCrae | Unsolved | Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that... | Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran, | Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best
That I should tread, with men the... | sonnet |
George MacDonald | A Book Of Dreams. | PART I.
1.
I lay and dreamed. The master came
In his old woven dress;
I stood in joy, and yet in shame,
Oppressed with earthliness.
He stretched his arms, and gently sought
To clasp me to his soul;
I shrunk away, because I thought
He did not know the whole.
I did not love him as I would,
Embraces were not meet;
I sank ... | PART I.
1.
I lay and dreamed. The master came
In his old woven dress;
I stood in joy, and yet in shame,
Oppressed with earthliness.
He stretched his arms, and gently sought
To clasp me to his soul;
I shrunk away, because I thought
He did not know the whole.
I did not love him as I would,
Embraces were not meet;
I sank ... | Was stronger than the rest.
And thus I stood, until the strife
The bonds of slumber brake;
I felt as I had ruined life,
Had fled, and come awake.
Yet I was glad, my heart confessed,
The trial went not on;
Glad likewise I had stood the test,
As far as it had gone.
And yet I fear some recreant thought,
Which now I all fo... | free_verse |
Walter De La Mare | The Shade | Darker than night; and oh, much darker, she,
Whose eyes in deep night darkness gaze on me.
No stars surround her; yet the moon seems hid
Afar somewhere, beneath that narrow lid.
She darkens against the darkness; and her face
Only by adding thought to thought I trace,
Limned shadowily: O dream, return once more
To gloom... | Darker than night; and oh, much darker, she,
Whose eyes in deep night darkness gaze on me. | No stars surround her; yet the moon seems hid
Afar somewhere, beneath that narrow lid.
She darkens against the darkness; and her face
Only by adding thought to thought I trace,
Limned shadowily: O dream, return once more
To gloomy Hades and the whispering shore! | octave |
Margaret Steele Anderson | Song. The Fallen Leaves. | The bride, she wears a white, white rose, the plucking, it was mine;
The poet wears a laurel wreath, and I the laurel twine;
And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you,
It laughs to wear my violets, they are so sweet and blue!
And I, I have a wreath to wear, ah, never rue nor thorn!
I sometimes ... | The bride, she wears a white, white rose, the plucking, it was mine;
The poet wears a laurel wreath, and I the laurel twine; | And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you,
It laughs to wear my violets, they are so sweet and blue!
And I, I have a wreath to wear, ah, never rue nor thorn!
I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn!
For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget
The fallen lea... | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXIV. Jingles. | Hey, dorolot, dorolot!
Hey, dorolay, dorolay!
Hey, my bonny boat, bonny boat,
Hey, drag away, drag away! | Hey, dorolot, dorolot! | Hey, dorolay, dorolay!
Hey, my bonny boat, bonny boat,
Hey, drag away, drag away! | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | His Answer To A Friend. | You ask me what I do, and how I live?
And, noble friend, this answer I must give:
Drooping, I draw on to the vaults of death,
O'er which you'll walk, when I am laid beneath. | You ask me what I do, and how I live? | And, noble friend, this answer I must give:
Drooping, I draw on to the vaults of death,
O'er which you'll walk, when I am laid beneath. | quatrain |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | By The River. | Flow on, ye lays so loved, so fair,
On to Oblivion's ocean flow!
May no rapt boy recall you e'er,
No maiden in her beauty's glow!
My love alone was then your theme,
But now she scorns my passion true.
Ye were but written in the stream;
As it flows on, then, flow ye too! | Flow on, ye lays so loved, so fair,
On to Oblivion's ocean flow! | May no rapt boy recall you e'er,
No maiden in her beauty's glow!
My love alone was then your theme,
But now she scorns my passion true.
Ye were but written in the stream;
As it flows on, then, flow ye too! | octave |
Oliver Wendell Holmes | Hymn For The Same Occasion (The Two Hundredth Anniversary King's Chapel) | Sung By The Congregation To The Tune Of Tallis's Evening Hymn
O'ershadowed by the walls that climb,
Piled up in air by living hands,
A rock amid the waves of time,
Our gray old house of worship stands.
High o'er the pillared aisles we love
The symbols of the past look down;
Unharmed, unharming, throned above,
Behold th... | Sung By The Congregation To The Tune Of Tallis's Evening Hymn
O'ershadowed by the walls that climb,
Piled up in air by living hands,
A rock amid the waves of time,
Our gray old house of worship stands.
High o'er the pillared aisles we love
The symbols of the past look down;
Unharmed, unharming, throned above, | Behold the mitre and the crown!
Let not our younger faith forget
The loyal souls that held them dear;
The prayers we read their tears have wet,
The hymns we sing they loved to hear.
The memory of their earthly throne
Still to our holy temple clings,
But here the kneeling suppliants own
One only Lord, the King of kings.... | free_verse |
Alfred Edward Housman | Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXIX - The Lent Lily | 'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.
And there's the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play,
And there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.
And since till girls go maying
You find the pr... | 'Tis spring; come out to ramble
The hilly brakes around,
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found.
And there's the windflower chilly | With all the winds at play,
And there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter day.
And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still,
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will,
But not the daffodil,
Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring's array,
And bear from hill an... | free_verse |
William Henry Davies | Christmas | Christmas has come, let's eat and drink,
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since... | Christmas has come, let's eat and drink,
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since... | Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,,
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left... | free_verse |
Oliver Herford | Gilbert K. Chesterton | Unless I'm very much misled,
Chesterton's easier done than said.
I have not seen him, but his looks
I can imagine from his books. | Unless I'm very much misled, | Chesterton's easier done than said.
I have not seen him, but his looks
I can imagine from his books. | quatrain |
Jonathan Swift | On The Church's Danger | Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry,
The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh.
In those we love not, we no danger see,
And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.
But we must silent be, amidst our fears,
And not believe our senses, but the Peers.
So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,
First stop her mouth,... | Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry,
The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. | In those we love not, we no danger see,
And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.
But we must silent be, amidst our fears,
And not believe our senses, but the Peers.
So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,
First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame. | octave |
Arthur Hugh Clough | Amours De Voyage. | Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,
And taste with a distempered appetite!
SHAKSPEARE.
I1 doutait de tout, m'me de l'arnour.
FRENCH NOVEL.
Solvitur ambulando.
SOLUTIO SOPHISMATUM.
Flevit amores
Non elaboratum ad pedem.
HORACE.
CANTO I.
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summit,
Unto, the sun a... | Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,
And taste with a distempered appetite!
SHAKSPEARE.
I1 doutait de tout, m'me de l'arnour.
FRENCH NOVEL.
Solvitur ambulando.
SOLUTIO SOPHISMATUM.
Flevit amores
Non elaboratum ad pedem.
HORACE.
CANTO I.
Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summit,
Unto, the sun a... | See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance;
Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses;
Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets,
Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away the
Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thom... | free_verse |
Marietta Holley | Lemoine. | In the unquiet night,
With all her beauty bright,
She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;
Not twice of the same mind,
Sometimes unkind - unkind,
And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.
Such madness of mirth lies
In the haunting hazel eyes,
When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night;
Its g... | In the unquiet night,
With all her beauty bright,
She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;
Not twice of the same mind,
Sometimes unkind - unkind,
And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.
Such madness of mirth lies
In the haunting hazel eyes,
When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night;
Its g... | Adown the shining lane,
The long and lustrous lane of the moonlight she glides away.
I fancy oft a stir,
Of wings seem following her,
Trailing a terrible gloom along the oaken floor,
As she walks to and fro;
Louder the strange sounds grow
To a nameless, dreadful horror, that floods the chamber o'er.
And then I raise my... | free_verse |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | Zira: In Captivity | Love me a little, Lord, or let me go,
I am so weary walking to and fro
Through all your lonely halls that were so sweet
Did they but echo to your coming feet.
When by the flowered scrolls of lace-like stone
Our women's windows - I am left alone,
Across the yellow Desert, looking forth,
I see the purple hills towards th... | Love me a little, Lord, or let me go,
I am so weary walking to and fro
Through all your lonely halls that were so sweet
Did they but echo to your coming feet.
When by the flowered scrolls of lace-like stone
Our women's windows - I am left alone,
Across the yellow Desert, looking forth,
I see the purple hills towards th... | Erect, serene, with gravely brilliant eyes,
As deeply dark as are these desert skies.
"Truly no bitter fate," they said, and smiled,
"Awaits the beauty of this captured child!"
Then something in my heart began to sing,
And secretly I longed to see the King.
Sometimes the other maidens sat in tears,
Sometimes, consoled,... | free_verse |
Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa | Sonnet XX. | When in the widening circle of rebirth
To a new flesh my travelled soul shall come,
And try again the unremembered earth
With the old sadness for the immortal home,
Shall I revisit these same differing fields
And cull the old new flowers with the same sense,
That some small breath of foiled remembrance yields,
Of more ... | When in the widening circle of rebirth
To a new flesh my travelled soul shall come,
And try again the unremembered earth
With the old sadness for the immortal home, | Shall I revisit these same differing fields
And cull the old new flowers with the same sense,
That some small breath of foiled remembrance yields,
Of more age than my days in this pretence?
Shall I again regret strange faces lost
Of which the present memory is forgot
And but in unseen bulks of vagueness tossed
Out of t... | sonnet |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: Omens. | Hark! the owlet flaps his wings
In the pathless dell beneath;
Hark! 'tis the night-raven sings
Tidings of approaching death. | Hark! the owlet flaps his wings | In the pathless dell beneath;
Hark! 'tis the night-raven sings
Tidings of approaching death. | quatrain |
Charles Baudelaire | Spleen I | Pluvi'se, irrit' contre la ville enti're,
De son urne ' grands flots verse un froid t'n'breux
Aux p'les habitants du voisin cimeti're
Et la mortalit' sur les faubourgs brumeux.
Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une liti're
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
L''me d'un vieux po'te erre dans la goutti're
Avec l... | Pluvi'se, irrit' contre la ville enti're,
De son urne ' grands flots verse un froid t'n'breux
Aux p'les habitants du voisin cimeti're
Et la mortalit' sur les faubourgs brumeux. | Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une liti're
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
L''me d'un vieux po'te erre dans la goutti're
Avec la triste voix d'un fant'me frileux.
Le bourdon se lamente, et la b'che enfum'e
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhum'e,
Cependant qu'en un jeu plein de sales parfums,
H'ritage... | sonnet |
Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny) | To ---- | Oh, turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,
I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow,
By the warm blood that mantles there. | Oh, turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays; | And though they beam so tenderly,
I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow,
By the warm blood that mantles there. | octave |
James Lister Cuthbertson | Corona Inutilis | I twined a wreath of heather white
To bind my lady's hair,
And deemed her locks in even light
Would well the burden bear;
But when I saw the tresses brown,
And found the face so fair,
I tore the wreath, and left the crown
Of beauty only there. | I twined a wreath of heather white
To bind my lady's hair, | And deemed her locks in even light
Would well the burden bear;
But when I saw the tresses brown,
And found the face so fair,
I tore the wreath, and left the crown
Of beauty only there. | octave |
Adam Lindsay Gordon | In Utrumque Paratus - A Logical Discussion | 'Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
And round the world away!
Young blood will have its course, lad!
And every dog his day!'
- C. Kingsley.
There's a formula which the west country clowns
Once used, ere their blows fell thick,
At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs,
In their bouts with the single-stick.
You may re... | 'Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
And round the world away!
Young blood will have its course, lad!
And every dog his day!'
- C. Kingsley.
There's a formula which the west country clowns
Once used, ere their blows fell thick,
At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs,
In their bouts with the single-stick.
You may re... | Albeit those purple grapes hang high,
Like the fox in the ancient tale,
Let us pause and try, ere we pass them by,
Though we, like the fox, may fail.
All hurry is worse than useless; think
On the adage, ''Tis pace that kills';
Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink,
Abstain from Holloway's pills,
Wear woollen socks, they... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Mean In Our Mean | Though frankincense the deities require,
We must not give all to the hallow'd fire.
Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,
As for ourselves to leave some frankince | Though frankincense the deities require, | We must not give all to the hallow'd fire.
Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,
As for ourselves to leave some frankince | quatrain |
Henry Austin Dobson | To A Pastoral Poet. | (H. E. B.)
Among my best I put your Book,
O Poet of the breeze and brook!
(That breeze and brook which blows and falls
More soft to those in city walls)
Among my best: and keep it still
Till down the fair grass-girdled hill,
Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes
The wandering wind that wakes the rose,
And scares the ... | (H. E. B.)
Among my best I put your Book,
O Poet of the breeze and brook!
(That breeze and brook which blows and falls
More soft to those in city walls)
Among my best: and keep it still | Till down the fair grass-girdled hill,
Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes
The wandering wind that wakes the rose,
And scares the cohort that explore
The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,
Or starts the restless bees that fret
The bindweed and the mignonette.
Then I shall take your Book, and dream
I lie beside s... | free_verse |
Alfred Edward Housman | Could man be drunk for ever | Could man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights,
Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.
But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts. | Could man be drunk for ever
With liquor, love, or fights, | Lief should I rouse at morning
And lief lie down of nights.
But men at whiles are sober
And think by fits and starts,
And if they think, they fasten
Their hands upon their hearts. | octave |
Morris Rosenfeld | The Candle Seller | In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post,
There sits a poor woman as wan as a ghost.
Her pale face is shrunk, like the face of the dead,
And yet you can tell that her cheeks once were red.
But love, ease and friendship and glory, I ween,
May hardly the cause of their fading have been.
Poor soul, she has wept so, she ... | In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post,
There sits a poor woman as wan as a ghost.
Her pale face is shrunk, like the face of the dead,
And yet you can tell that her cheeks once were red.
But love, ease and friendship and glory, I ween,
May hardly the cause of their fading have been.
Poor soul, she has wept so, she ... | But who for the poor, wretched woman will care?
A few of her candles you think they will take?--
They seek the meat patties, the fish and the cake.
She holds forth a hand with the pitiful cry:
"Two cents, my good women, three candles will buy!"
But no one has listened, and no one has heard:
Her voice is so weak, that i... | free_verse |
Rudyard Kipling | Yet At The Last | Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him,
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the river,
Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had... | Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, | Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him,
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the river,
Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him,
He called upon Allah, and died a Believer! | octave |
Alfred Edward Housman | The sigh that heaves the grasses | The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise
Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.
The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee. | The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise | Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.
The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee. | octave |
Henry John Newbolt, Sir | Laudabunt Alii | (After Horace)
Let others praise, as fancy wills,
Berlin beneath her trees,
Or Rome upon her seven hills,
Or Venice by her seas;
Stamboul by double tides embraced,
Or green Damascus in the waste.
For me there's nought I would not leave
For the good Devon land,
Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve
Bedewed with spray-d... | (After Horace)
Let others praise, as fancy wills,
Berlin beneath her trees,
Or Rome upon her seven hills,
Or Venice by her seas;
Stamboul by double tides embraced,
Or green Damascus in the waste.
For me there's nought I would not leave
For the good Devon land,
Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve | Bedewed with spray-drift stand,
And hardly bear the red fruit up
That shall be next year's cider-cup.
You too, my friend, may wisely mark
How clear skies follow rain,
And, lingering in your own green park
Or drilled on Laffan's Plain,
Forget not with the festal bowl
To soothe at times your weary soul.
When Drake must b... | free_verse |
Thomas Oldham | Epigram On The New Experiment Of Lighting The House Of Commons By Means Of Gas-Pipes Placed Between The Two Ceilings | Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still,
'Tis well the new experiment to try:
A stronger, purer light none can deny
Will then illume the House light coming from on high.
* ... | Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still, | 'Tis well the new experiment to try:
A stronger, purer light none can deny
Will then illume the House light coming from on high.
* * * * *
'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'
Cried Hal, 'can play the part of Bottom.'
"Play it yourself;" retorted Ned,
"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head." | free_verse |
Eugene Field | The Convalescent Gripster | The gods let slip that fiendish grip
Upon me last week Sunday--
No fiercer storm than racked my form
E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;
But now, good-by
To drugs, say I--
Good-by to gnawing sorrow;
I am up to-day,
And, whoop, hooray!
I'm going out to-morrow!
What aches and pain in bones and brain
I had I need not mention;
It... | The gods let slip that fiendish grip
Upon me last week Sunday--
No fiercer storm than racked my form
E'er swept the Bay of Fundy;
But now, good-by
To drugs, say I--
Good-by to gnawing sorrow;
I am up to-day,
And, whoop, hooray!
I'm going out to-morrow!
What aches and pain in bones and brain
I had I need not mention;
It... | The doctor reassured me--
And, true enough,
With his vile stuff,
He ultimately cured me.
As there I lay in bed all day,
How fair outside looked to me!
A smile so mild old Nature smiled
It seemed to warm clean through me.
In chastened mood
The scene I viewed,
Inventing, sadly solus,
Fantastic rhymes
Between the times
I ... | free_verse |
Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory | His Praise Of The Little Hill And The Plains Of Mayo | After the Christmas, with the help of Christ, I will never stop if I am alive; I will go to the sharp-edged little hill; for it is a fine place without fog falling; a blessed place that the sun shines on, and the wind doesn't rise there or anything of the sort.
And if you were a year there you would get no rest, ... | After the Christmas, with the help of Christ, I will never stop if I am alive; I will go to the sharp-edged little hill; for it is a fine place without fog falling; a blessed place that the sun shines on, and the wind doesn't rise there or anything of the sort. | And if you were a year there you would get no rest, only sitting up at night and forever drinking. The lamb and the sheep are there; the cow and the calf are there, fine lands are there without heath and without bog. Ploughing & seed-sowing in the right month, plough and harrow prepared and ready; the rent that i... | free_verse |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | St. Dorothy | It hath been seen and yet it shall be seen
That out of tender mouths God's praise hath been
Made perfect, and with wood and simple string
He hath played music sweet as shawm-playing
To please himself with softness of all sound;
And no small thing but hath been sometime found
Full sweet of use, and no such humbleness
Bu... | It hath been seen and yet it shall be seen
That out of tender mouths God's praise hath been
Made perfect, and with wood and simple string
He hath played music sweet as shawm-playing
To please himself with softness of all sound;
And no small thing but hath been sometime found
Full sweet of use, and no such humbleness
Bu... | To speak against this worthy word of yours;
Knowing how God's will in all speech endures,
That save by grace there may no thing be said.
Then Theophile waxed light from foot to head,
And softly fell upon this answering.
It is well seen you are a chosen thing
To do God service in his gracious way.
I will that you make h... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | Translations. - Part Ii. Sonnet Lxxv. (From Petrarch.) | The elect angels and the souls in bliss,
The citizens of heaven, when, that first day,
My lady passed from me and went their way,
Of marvel and pity full, did round her press.
"What light is this, and what new loveliness?"
They said among them; "for such sweet display
Did never mount, that from the earth did stray
To t... | The elect angels and the souls in bliss,
The citizens of heaven, when, that first day,
My lady passed from me and went their way,
Of marvel and pity full, did round her press. | "What light is this, and what new loveliness?"
They said among them; "for such sweet display
Did never mount, that from the earth did stray
To this high dwelling, all this age, we guess!"[1]
She, well content her lodging chang'd to find,
Shows perfect, by her peers most perfect placed;
And now and then half turning loo... | sonnet |
Robert Browning | Pippa's Song | The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven
All's right with the world! | The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn; | Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven
All's right with the world! | octave |
John Hartley | Waivin Mewsic. | Ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame,
Ther's melody mingled ith' noise;
For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame,
If they'd harken to th' saand of its voice.
An when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel
As you pause an look raand on the throng,
At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the w... | Ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame,
Ther's melody mingled ith' noise;
For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame,
If they'd harken to th' saand of its voice.
An when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel
As you pause an look raand on the throng,
At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the w... | It saands amang th' din, as the violet seems
At peeps aght th' green dockens among,
Diffusing a charm ovver th' rest by its means,
Thus it blends i' that steady old song;
Nick a ting, nock a ting,
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind,
Keep a contented mind,
Troubles... | free_verse |
Robert Lee Frost | The Oven Bird | There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment o... | There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers | Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to si... | sonnet |
George MacDonald | Provision | Above my head the great pine-branches tower;
Backwards and forwards each to the other bends,
Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends
Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power:
Hark to the patter of the coming shower!
Let me be silent while the Almighty sends
His thunder-word along--but when it ends
I will a... | Above my head the great pine-branches tower;
Backwards and forwards each to the other bends,
Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends
Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power: | Hark to the patter of the coming shower!
Let me be silent while the Almighty sends
His thunder-word along--but when it ends
I will arise and fashion from the hour
Words of stupendous import, fit to guard
High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave,
When the temptation cometh close and hard,
Like fiery brands betwixt m... | sonnet |
Oliver Herford | To The Waiter | We drink your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served. | We drink your health, O Waiter! | And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served. | quatrain |
Michael Drayton | Sonnet 17 | If hee from heauen that filch'd that liuing fire,
Condemn'd by Ioue to endlesse torment be,
I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,
That farre beyond Promethius did aspire?
The fire he stole, although of heauenly kinde,
Which from aboue he craftily did take,
Of liueles clods vs liuing men to make,
Againe bestow'd in... | If hee from heauen that filch'd that liuing fire,
Condemn'd by Ioue to endlesse torment be,
I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,
That farre beyond Promethius did aspire? | The fire he stole, although of heauenly kinde,
Which from aboue he craftily did take,
Of liueles clods vs liuing men to make,
Againe bestow'd in temper of the mind.
But you broke in to heauens immortall store,
Where vertue, honour, wit, and beautie lay,
Which taking thence, you haue escap'd away,
Yet stand as free as e... | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | Storm At Annisquam | The sun sinks scarlet as a barberry.
Far off at sea one vessel lifts a sail,
Hurrying to harbor from the coming gale,
That banks the west above a choppy sea.
The sun is gone; the fide is flowing free;
The bay is opaled with wild light; and pale
The lighthouse spears its flame now; through a veil
That falls about the se... | The sun sinks scarlet as a barberry.
Far off at sea one vessel lifts a sail,
Hurrying to harbor from the coming gale,
That banks the west above a choppy sea. | The sun is gone; the fide is flowing free;
The bay is opaled with wild light; and pale
The lighthouse spears its flame now; through a veil
That falls about the sea mysteriously.
Out there she sits and mutters of her dead,
Old Ocean; of the stalwart and the strong,
Skipper and fisher whom her arms dragged down:
Before h... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To A Gentlewoman On Just Dealing. | True to yourself and sheets, you'll have me swear;
You shall, if righteous dealing I find there.
Do not you fall through frailty; I'll be sure
To keep my bond still free from forfeiture. | True to yourself and sheets, you'll have me swear; | You shall, if righteous dealing I find there.
Do not you fall through frailty; I'll be sure
To keep my bond still free from forfeiture. | quatrain |
Richard Le Gallienne | Song | She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star. | She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain, | She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star. | octave |
Rudyard Kipling | Poor Honest Men | Your jar of Virginny
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it according,
When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.
From the Capes of the Delaware,
As you are well aware,
We sail which tobacco for England-but then,
Our own British crui... | Your jar of Virginny
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it according,
When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.
From the Capes of the Delaware,
As you are well aware,
We sail which tobacco for England-but then,
Our own British crui... | Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs
Are waiting to terrify poor honest men.
Napoleon's embargo
Is laid on all cargo
Which comfort or aid to King George may intend;
And since roll, twist and leaf,
Of all comforts is chief,
They try for to steal it from poor honest men!
With no heart for fight,
We take refuge in flight,
But fire a... | free_verse |
Edmund Spenser | Fowre Hymnes | TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND MOST VERTUOUS LADIES, THE LADIE MARGARET, COUNTESSE OF CUMBERLAND; AND THE LADIE MARIE*, COUNTESSE OF WARWICK.
Having, in the greener times of my youth, composed these former two Hymnes in the praise of love and beautie, and finding that the same too much pleased those of like age and disposi... | TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND MOST VERTUOUS LADIES, THE LADIE MARGARET, COUNTESSE OF CUMBERLAND; AND THE LADIE MARIE*, COUNTESSE OF WARWICK.
Having, in the greener times of my youth, composed these former two Hymnes in the praise of love and beautie, and finding that the same too much pleased those of like age and disposi... | For that same goodly hew of white and red
With which the cheekes are sprinckled, shall decay,
And those sweete rosy leaves, so fairly spred
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away
To that they were, even to corrupted clay:
That golden wyre, those sparckling stars so bright,
Shall turne to dust, and lose their goodly li... | free_verse |
Ramakrishna, T. | To The Memory Of My Dear Daughter Kamala. | The star that rose to cheer our humble life,
And make a little heaven of our home,
Shall rise again - yes, surely rise again
To give us everlasting joy divine. | The star that rose to cheer our humble life, | And make a little heaven of our home,
Shall rise again - yes, surely rise again
To give us everlasting joy divine. | quatrain |
Adam Lindsay Gordon | Thick-headed Thoughts | No. I
I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
While life is in me I can fight and bleed,
But never the chastising hand caress.
You say the stroke was well intended. 'True.'
You mention 'It was meant to do me good.'
'That may be.' 'You deserve it.' 'Granted, too.'
'Then take i... | No. I
I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
While life is in me I can fight and bleed,
But never the chastising hand caress.
You say the stroke was well intended. 'True.'
You mention 'It was meant to do me good.'
'That may be.' 'You deserve it.' 'Granted, too.'
'Then take i... | Who on the long-eared quadruped bestowed,
With a stout cudgel, many a hearty thwack;
But lazier and lazier grew the beast,
Until he dwindled to a step so slow
That I felt sure 'twould take him, at the least,
Full half-an-hour one blessed mile to go.
Soliloquising on this state of things,
'That moke's like me,' I mutter... | free_verse |
Matthew Prior | On Bishop Atterbury's Burying The Duke Of Buckingham | I have no hopes, the Duke he says, and dies.
In sure and certain hopes, the prelate cries:
Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee say, man,
Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd:
He's our dear brother, quoth the lordly priest.
The Duke, though knave, still brother dear he... | I have no hopes, the Duke he says, and dies.
In sure and certain hopes, the prelate cries: | Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee say, man,
Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman?
The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd:
He's our dear brother, quoth the lordly priest.
The Duke, though knave, still brother dear he cries
And who can say the reverend Prelate lies? | octave |
Ben Jonson | Song To Diana | Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then ... | Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright. | Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that m... | free_verse |
Paul Bewsher | The Sea. | Sad is the lonely sea -
So vast, and smooth, and grey
It stretches far from me.
Sad is the lonely sea!
Its cheerful colours flee
Before the fading day.
Sad is the lonely sea
So vast, and smooth, and grey! | Sad is the lonely sea -
So vast, and smooth, and grey | It stretches far from me.
Sad is the lonely sea!
Its cheerful colours flee
Before the fading day.
Sad is the lonely sea
So vast, and smooth, and grey! | octave |
Matthew Prior | Remedy Worse Than The Disease, A | I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician. | I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over: | He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician. | octave |
William Butler Yeats | Youth And Age | Much did I rage when young,
Being by the world oppressed,
But now with flattering tongue
It speeds the parting guest. | Much did I rage when young, | Being by the world oppressed,
But now with flattering tongue
It speeds the parting guest. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCI. Lullabies. | [From Yorkshire. A nursery-cry.]
Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit-Pie!
Come, my ladies, come and buy;
Else your babies they will cry. | [From Yorkshire. A nursery-cry.] | Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit-Pie!
Come, my ladies, come and buy;
Else your babies they will cry. | quatrain |
Robert Fuller Murray | Tears | Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not a... | Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain. | For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awake
What lies beneath of young or fair
And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
In flowers which sweeten all the ai... | sonnet |
Michael Drayton | Sonnets: Idea LX | Define my weal, and tell the joys of heaven;
Express my woes and show the pains of hell;
Declare what fate unlucky stars have given,
And ask a world upon my life to dwell;
Make known the faith that fortune could no move,
Compare my worth with others' base desert,
Let virtue be the touchstone of my love,
So may the heav... | Define my weal, and tell the joys of heaven;
Express my woes and show the pains of hell;
Declare what fate unlucky stars have given,
And ask a world upon my life to dwell; | Make known the faith that fortune could no move,
Compare my worth with others' base desert,
Let virtue be the touchstone of my love,
So may the heavens read wonders in my heart;
Behold the clouds which have eclipsed my sun,
And view the crosses which my course do let;
Tell me, if ever since the world begun
So fair a ri... | sonnet |
John Masefield | The Lemmings | Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come
Westward, in search of food, over the snow;
Westward until the salt sea drowns them dumb;
Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go.
Once, it is thought, there was a westward land
Now drowned where there was food for those starved things,
And memory of the place has bur... | Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come
Westward, in search of food, over the snow;
Westward until the salt sea drowns them dumb;
Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go. | Once, it is thought, there was a westward land
Now drowned where there was food for those starved things,
And memory of the place has burnt its brand
In the little brains of all the Lemming Kings.
Perhaps, long since, there was a land beyond
Westward from death, some city, some calm place
Where one could taste God's qu... | sonnet |
Alexander Pope | Lines On A Grotto, At Crux-Easton, Hants. | Here shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters[130] raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts wh... | Here shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters[130] raise; | The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a court. | octave |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | From The Mountain. | If I, dearest Lily, did not love thee,
How this prospect would enchant my sight!
And yet if I, Lily, did not love thee,
Could I find, or here, or there, delight? | If I, dearest Lily, did not love thee, | How this prospect would enchant my sight!
And yet if I, Lily, did not love thee,
Could I find, or here, or there, delight? | quatrain |
Richard Hunter | Prince Charming. | This is Prince Charming,
Whom often you meet,
Riding or walking
In Nursery Street.
See the red feather
He wears in his hat,
Always you know he's
Prince Charming by that. | This is Prince Charming,
Whom often you meet, | Riding or walking
In Nursery Street.
See the red feather
He wears in his hat,
Always you know he's
Prince Charming by that. | octave |
Sara Teasdale | At Sea | In the pull of the wind I stand, lonely,
On the deck of a ship, rising, falling,
Wild night around me, wild water under me,
Whipped by the storm, screaming and calling.
Earth is hostile and the sea hostile,
Why do I look for a place to rest?
I must fight always and die fighting
With fear an unhealing wound in my breast... | In the pull of the wind I stand, lonely,
On the deck of a ship, rising, falling, | Wild night around me, wild water under me,
Whipped by the storm, screaming and calling.
Earth is hostile and the sea hostile,
Why do I look for a place to rest?
I must fight always and die fighting
With fear an unhealing wound in my breast. | octave |
Robert Herrick | A Sonnet Of Perilla. | Then did I live when I did see
Perilla smile on none but me.
But, ah! by stars malignant crossed,
The life I got I quickly lost;
But yet a way there doth remain
For me embalm'd to live again,
And that's to love me; in which state
I'll live as one regenerate. | Then did I live when I did see
Perilla smile on none but me. | But, ah! by stars malignant crossed,
The life I got I quickly lost;
But yet a way there doth remain
For me embalm'd to live again,
And that's to love me; in which state
I'll live as one regenerate. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCC. Games. | Jack be nimble,
And Jack be quick:
And Jack jump over
The candle-stick. | Jack be nimble, | And Jack be quick:
And Jack jump over
The candle-stick. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | A Prisoner | The hinges are so rusty
The door is fixed and fast;
The windows are so dusty
The sun looks in aghast:
Knock out the glass, I pray,
Or dash the door away,
Or break the house down bodily,
And let my soul go free! | The hinges are so rusty
The door is fixed and fast; | The windows are so dusty
The sun looks in aghast:
Knock out the glass, I pray,
Or dash the door away,
Or break the house down bodily,
And let my soul go free! | octave |
Susanna Moodie | Youth And Age. | YOUTH.
Pilgrim of life! thy hoary head
Is bent with age, thine eye
Looks downward to the silent dead,
Wreck of mortality!--
The friends who flourished in thy day
Have sought their narrow home;
Their spirits whisper, "Come away!"--
AGE.
My soul replies, I come.--
I tread the path I trod a child,
The fields I loved of yo... | YOUTH.
Pilgrim of life! thy hoary head
Is bent with age, thine eye
Looks downward to the silent dead,
Wreck of mortality!--
The friends who flourished in thy day
Have sought their narrow home;
Their spirits whisper, "Come away!"--
AGE.
My soul replies, I come.--
I tread the path I trod a child,
The fields I loved of yo... | I stand beneath this giant oak!
It was an aged tree,
Hollowed by time's resistless stroke,
When life was green with me.
Its lofty head it proudly rears
To greet the summer sky,
Whilst, bending with the weight of years,
I feebly totter by.
And hushed are all the thousand songs
That filled these branches high:
Echo no mo... | free_verse |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: Sufficient Unto The Day. | Is not to-day enough? Why do I peer
Into the darkness of the day to come?
Is not to-morrow even as yesterday?
And will the day that follows change thy doom?
Few flowers grow upon thy wintry way;
And who waits for thee in that cheerless home
Whence thou hast fled, whither thou must return
Charged with the load that make... | Is not to-day enough? Why do I peer
Into the darkness of the day to come? | Is not to-morrow even as yesterday?
And will the day that follows change thy doom?
Few flowers grow upon thy wintry way;
And who waits for thee in that cheerless home
Whence thou hast fled, whither thou must return
Charged with the load that makes thee faint and mourn? | octave |
Robert Herrick | How Primroses Came Green. | Virgins, time-past, known were these,
Troubled with green-sicknesses:
Turn'd to flowers, still the hue,
Sickly girls, they bear of you. | Virgins, time-past, known were these, | Troubled with green-sicknesses:
Turn'd to flowers, still the hue,
Sickly girls, they bear of you. | quatrain |
Anna Akhmatova | Thunder | There will be thunder then. Remember me.
Say ' She asked for storms.' The entire
world will turn the colour of crimson stone,
and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy,
when for the last time I say goodbye,
soaring to the heavens that I longed to see,
leaving my shadow here in the... | There will be thunder then. Remember me.
Say ' She asked for storms.' The entire | world will turn the colour of crimson stone,
and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy,
when for the last time I say goodbye,
soaring to the heavens that I longed to see,
leaving my shadow here in the sky. | octave |
Maurice Henry Hewlett | Aspetto Reale | That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted
Thou wrotest, "Come, for I have lookt on death."
Piteous I held my indeterminate breath
And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted
Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted
Thy radiant immortality underneath
Such stress of dark; but then, as one that sait... | That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted
Thou wrotest, "Come, for I have lookt on death."
Piteous I held my indeterminate breath
And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted | Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted
Thy radiant immortality underneath
Such stress of dark; but then, as one that saith,
"I know Love liveth," sat on by death untainted.
O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry
To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears!
O youth, O pride, set too remote and high
For touch of... | sonnet |
Robert Lee Frost | Stars | How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like some snow-white
Minerva's s... | How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow! | As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight. | free_verse |
William Cowper | On A Mistake In His Translation Of Homer. | Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;[1]
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer. | Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers, | He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;[1]
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer. | octave |
Thomas Gent | Sonnet. To Lydia, On Her Birth-Day. | Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;
How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,
And joys departed, still to memory dear!
If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,
Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,
'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,
And on the t... | Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;
How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,
And joys departed, still to memory dear! | If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,
Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,
'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,
And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.
May every after-season to thee bring
New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way,
Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing,
And angels ... | sonnet |
Michael Drayton | Amour 23 | Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie,
Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother,
The worke of that vnited Trinitie,
Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other!
Loues Mithridate, the purest of perfection,
Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,
The soules delight, the sences true direction,
Sunne of the world, thou ... | Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie,
Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother,
The worke of that vnited Trinitie,
Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other! | Loues Mithridate, the purest of perfection,
Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,
The soules delight, the sences true direction,
Sunne of the world, thou hart reuyuing fire!
Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,
Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,
Or make my pen her name immortalize,
Who in he... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXVI. Natural History. | The cock doth crow,
To let you know,
If you be wise,
'Tis time to rise. | The cock doth crow, | To let you know,
If you be wise,
'Tis time to rise. | quatrain |
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