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George MacDonald | Sonnet. About Jesus. IV. | If Thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks,
What shining of pent glories, what new grace
Had burst upon us from the great Earth's face!
How had we read, as in new-languaged books,
Clear love of God in lone retreating nooks!
A lily, as thy hand its form would trace,
Were plainly seen God's child, of lower race;
And,... | If Thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks,
What shining of pent glories, what new grace
Had burst upon us from the great Earth's face!
How had we read, as in new-languaged books, | Clear love of God in lone retreating nooks!
A lily, as thy hand its form would trace,
Were plainly seen God's child, of lower race;
And, O my heart, blue hills! and grassy brooks!
Thy soul lay to all undulations bare,
Answering in waves. Each morn the sun did rise,
And God's world woke beneath life-giving skies,
Thou s... | sonnet |
James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis) | A Chant | "While the trees grow,
While the streams flow,
While the winds blow,
We will be free:
Free as trees growing,
Free as streams flowing,
Free as winds blowing,
Evermore free." | "While the trees grow,
While the streams flow, | While the winds blow,
We will be free:
Free as trees growing,
Free as streams flowing,
Free as winds blowing,
Evermore free." | octave |
Robert Herrick | To Silvia | Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I confess
My kiss out-went the bounds of shamefacedness:
None is discreet at all times; no, not Jove
Himself, at one time, can be wise and love. | Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I confess | My kiss out-went the bounds of shamefacedness:
None is discreet at all times; no, not Jove
Himself, at one time, can be wise and love. | quatrain |
Walter Scott (Sir) | Sound, Sound The Clarion | 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 |
Walt Whitman | Excelsior | Who has gone farthest? For lo! have not I gone farther?
And who has been just? For I would be the most just person of the earth;
And who most cautious? For I would be more cautious;
And who has been happiest? O I think it is I! I think no one was ever happier than I;
And who has lavish'd all? For I lavish constantly th... | Who has gone farthest? For lo! have not I gone farther?
And who has been just? For I would be the most just person of the earth;
And who most cautious? For I would be more cautious;
And who has been happiest? O I think it is I! I think no one was ever happier than I; | And who has lavish'd all? For I lavish constantly the best I have;
And who has been firmest? For I would be firmer;
And who proudest? For I think I have reason to be the proudest son alive--for I am the son of the brawny and tall-topt city;
And who has been bold and true? For I would be the boldest and truest being of ... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Sunset. | I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edge
And peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;
High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,
Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.
With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,
I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.
'Twas but the expiring glory of the light
Flun... | I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edge
And peer into night's chasm, dark and damp; | High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,
Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.
With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,
I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.
'Twas but the expiring glory of the light
Flung from the hand of the adventurous day. | octave |
Fannie Isabelle Sherrick | Winter Flowers. | The summer queen has many flowers
To deck her sunny hair,
And trailing grasses, pure and sweet,
To scent the heavy air;
And upward through the misty sky
There is a glory too,
Of floating clouds and rifts of gold
And depths of smiling blue.
Yet winter, too, can boast a wealth
Of flowers pure and white;
A kingly crown of... | The summer queen has many flowers
To deck her sunny hair,
And trailing grasses, pure and sweet,
To scent the heavy air;
And upward through the misty sky
There is a glory too,
Of floating clouds and rifts of gold
And depths of smiling blue.
Yet winter, too, can boast a wealth
Of flowers pure and white; | A kingly crown of frosted gems--
A wreath of sparkling light;
So bright and beautiful, indeed,
It were a wondrous sight
To see a world of fragile flowers
Sprung up within a night.
And sometimes there are cast'es, too,
Of glittering ice and snow,
Piled high upon our window-panes
'Neath curtains hanging low;
And they are... | free_verse |
Jonathan Swift | Lines Written Extempore On Mr. Harley's Being Stabbed, And Addressed To His Physician, 1710-11 [1] | On Britain Europe's safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill. | On Britain Europe's safety lies, | Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill. | quatrain |
Oliver Herford | The Salamander | The Salamander made his bed
Among the glowing embers red.
A Fiery Furnace, to his mind,
Hygiene and Luxury combined.
He was, if I may put it so,
A Saurian Abednigo.
He loved to climb with nimble ease
The branches of the Gas-log Trees
Where oft on chilly winter nights
He rose to dizzy Fahrenheits.
Believers in Soul Tran... | The Salamander made his bed
Among the glowing embers red.
A Fiery Furnace, to his mind,
Hygiene and Luxury combined. | He was, if I may put it so,
A Saurian Abednigo.
He loved to climb with nimble ease
The branches of the Gas-log Trees
Where oft on chilly winter nights
He rose to dizzy Fahrenheits.
Believers in Soul Transmigration
See in him the Re-incarnation
Of those Sad Plagues of summer, who
Ask, "Is it hot enough for you?" | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Glad Sight Wherever New With Old | Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love. | Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie; | The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love. | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XLVII - Conclusion | Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,
Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD
Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored,
Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold
His drowsy rings. Look forth! that Stream behold,
That stream upon whose bosom we have passed
Floating at ease while nations have effaced... | Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,
Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD
Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored,
Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold | His drowsy rings. Look forth! that Stream behold,
That stream upon whose bosom we have passed
Floating at ease while nations have effaced
Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold
Long lines of mighty Kings look forth, my Soul!
(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust)
The living Waters, less and less by guilt
Stain... | sonnet |
Ernest Christopher Dowson | Villanelle Of The Poet's Road | Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet is day over long.
Lest we do our youth wrong,
Gather them while we may:
Wine and woman and song.
Three things render us strong,
Vine leaves, kisses and bay;
Yet is day over long.
Unto us they belong,
Us the bitter and gay,
Wine and woman and song.
We, as we pas... | Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet is day over long.
Lest we do our youth wrong,
Gather them while we may:
Wine and woman and song. | Three things render us strong,
Vine leaves, kisses and bay;
Yet is day over long.
Unto us they belong,
Us the bitter and gay,
Wine and woman and song.
We, as we pass along,
Are sad that they will not stay;
Yet is day over long.
Fruits and flowers among,
What is better than they:
Wine and woman and song?
Yet is day over... | free_verse |
William Blake | The Question Answered | What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire | What is it men in women do require? | The lineaments of gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire | quatrain |
H. P. Nichols | Spring. | I am coming, I am coming,
With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o'er the common,
And a prettier ne'er was seen.
Soon I'll spangle it with clover,
And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
Yellow, red, and snowy white.
I am coming, and the tree-tops,
That all winter were so bare,
You shall... | I am coming, I am coming,
With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o'er the common,
And a prettier ne'er was seen.
Soon I'll spangle it with clover, | And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
Yellow, red, and snowy white.
I am coming, and the tree-tops,
That all winter were so bare,
You shall see, with small leaves covered,
Wave their branches in the air.
I am coming! Little children,
Can you tell me who am I?
If not, you will soon remember,
For... | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXVII. | We read the flying courser's name
Upon his side, in marks of flame;
And, by their turbaned brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropt his burning spark! | We read the flying courser's name
Upon his side, in marks of flame; | And, by their turbaned brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropt his burning spark! | octave |
Robert William Service | Going Home | I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty - ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?
I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a ... | I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty - ain't I glad to 'ave the chance!
I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France;
I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance,
For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'.
I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay?
I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a ... | 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front!
I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt;
But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt,
To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'.
I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red;
I've looked on cider flowin', till i... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXXVII. Natural History. | Little Robin Red-breast
Sat upon a rail:
Niddle naddle went his head,
Wiggle waggle went his tail. | Little Robin Red-breast | Sat upon a rail:
Niddle naddle went his head,
Wiggle waggle went his tail. | quatrain |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Preparation | The little bird sits in the nest and sings
A shy, soft song to the morning light;
And it flutters a little and prunes its wings.
The song is halting and poor and brief,
And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf;
But the note is a prelude to sweeter things,
And the busy bill and the flutter slight
Are proving the wing... | The little bird sits in the nest and sings
A shy, soft song to the morning light; | And it flutters a little and prunes its wings.
The song is halting and poor and brief,
And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf;
But the note is a prelude to sweeter things,
And the busy bill and the flutter slight
Are proving the wings for a bolder flight! | octave |
William Schwenck Gilbert | Sans Souci | I cannot tell what this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they'd imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no... | I cannot tell what this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they'd imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep, | Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next... | free_verse |
Victor-Marie Hugo | Paternal Love. | ("Ma fille! ' seul bonheur.")
[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II]
My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!
Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends,
A wife, a husband, vassals, followers,
Ancestors, and allies, or many children.
I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich;
Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.
A... | ("Ma fille! ' seul bonheur.")
[LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II]
My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!
Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends,
A wife, a husband, vassals, followers,
Ancestors, and allies, or many children.
I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich;
Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.
A... | And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health;
Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty,
Thou art my home, my country and my kin,
My wife, my mother, sister, friend - my child!
My bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law,
My Universe! Oh, by all other things
My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee -
Horri... | free_verse |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | The Ballad of Dead Men's Bay | The sea swings owre the slants of sand,
All white with winds that drive;
The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,
Where nae man comes alive.
At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf
A light flame sinks and springs;
At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf
A low flame leaps and clings.
What light is this on a su... | The sea swings owre the slants of sand,
All white with winds that drive;
The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,
Where nae man comes alive.
At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf
A light flame sinks and springs;
At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf
A low flame leaps and clings.
What light is this on a su... | No sign is mine of a breathing soul
That God should pity me.
"Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth
Hath part in me nor mine:
Strong lords are these of the living earth
And loveless lords of thine.
"But I that know nor lord nor life
More sure than storm or spray,
Whose breath is made of sport and strife,
Whereon s... | free_verse |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | The Rice was under Water | The Rice was under water, and the land was scourged with rain,
The nights were desolation, and the day was born in pain.
Ah, the famine and the fever and the cruel, swollen streams,
I had died, except for Krishna, who consoled me - in my dreams!
The Burning-Ghats were smoking, and the jewels melted down,
The Temples la... | The Rice was under water, and the land was scourged with rain,
The nights were desolation, and the day was born in pain. | Ah, the famine and the fever and the cruel, swollen streams,
I had died, except for Krishna, who consoled me - in my dreams!
The Burning-Ghats were smoking, and the jewels melted down,
The Temples lay deserted, for the people left the town.
Yet I was more than happy, though passing strange it seems,
For I spent my nigh... | octave |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Distinction | "I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,
"But worse, for thou art mire." | "I am but clay," the sinner plead, | Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,
"But worse, for thou art mire." | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Another. (To His Ever-Loving God.) | Thou bid'st me come; I cannot come; for why?
Thou dwell'st aloft, and I want wings to fly.
To mount my soul, she must have pinions given;
For 'tis no easy way from earth to heaven. | Thou bid'st me come; I cannot come; for why? | Thou dwell'st aloft, and I want wings to fly.
To mount my soul, she must have pinions given;
For 'tis no easy way from earth to heaven. | quatrain |
Robert Burns | The Reproof. | Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel? | Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name | Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel? | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | To Bacchus: A Canticle | Whither dost thou hurry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,
Here and there a fresh Love is;
That doth like me, this doth please;
Thus a thousand mistresses
I have now: yet I alone,
Having all, enjoy not one! | Whither dost thou hurry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee? | This way, that way, that way, this,
Here and there a fresh Love is;
That doth like me, this doth please;
Thus a thousand mistresses
I have now: yet I alone,
Having all, enjoy not one! | octave |
Louisa May Alcott | Tell The Dear Old Body | 'Tell the dear old body
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.'" | 'Tell the dear old body | This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.'" | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | The Watch | Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never
Wound up again; Once down, he's down for ever.
The watch once down, all motions then do cease;
The man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace. | Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never | Wound up again; Once down, he's down for ever.
The watch once down, all motions then do cease;
The man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace. | quatrain |
Edward Woodley Bowling | Tempora Mutantur. | There once was a time when I revelled in rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old hoss, poor Pegasus ... | There once was a time when I revelled in rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old hoss, poor Pegasus ... | Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton, increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded or vain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-called Reformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds? Who the money now finds, for ... | free_verse |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | A Man. | Fate slew him, but he did not drop;
She felled -- he did not fall --
Impaled him on her fiercest stakes --
He neutralized them all.
She stung him, sapped his firm advance,
But, when her worst was done,
And he, unmoved, regarded her,
Acknowledged him a man. | Fate slew him, but he did not drop;
She felled -- he did not fall -- | Impaled him on her fiercest stakes --
He neutralized them all.
She stung him, sapped his firm advance,
But, when her worst was done,
And he, unmoved, regarded her,
Acknowledged him a man. | octave |
William Morris | The Lay Of Christine. Translated From The Icelandic. | Of silk my gear was shapen,
Scarlet they did on me,
Then to the sea-strand was I borne
And laid in a bark of the sea.
O well were I from the World away.
Befell it there I might not drown,
For God to me was good;
The billows bare me up a-land
Where grew the fair green-wood.
O well were I from the World away.
There came ... | Of silk my gear was shapen,
Scarlet they did on me,
Then to the sea-strand was I borne
And laid in a bark of the sea.
O well were I from the World away.
Befell it there I might not drown,
For God to me was good;
The billows bare me up a-land
Where grew the fair green-wood.
O well were I from the World away.
There came ... | But the very first night we lay abed
Befell his sorrow and harm,
That thither came the King's ill men,
And slew him on mine arm.
O well were I from the World away.
There slew they Adalbright the King,
Two of his swains slew they,
But the third sailed swiftly from the land
Sithence I saw him never a day.
O well were I f... | free_verse |
John Milton | Paradise Lost - Book X | Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then l... | Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then l... | To serve ungovern'd appetite, and took
His Image whom they serv'd, a brutish vice,
Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve.
Therefore so abject is thir punishment,
Disfiguring not Gods likeness, but thir own,
Or if his likeness, by themselves defac't
While they pervert pure Natures healthful rules
To loathsom sickness, wort... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Julia's Voice. | So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise,
But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.
| So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice, | As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise,
But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber. | quatrain |
Charles Baudelaire | The Two Good Sisters | Debauch and Death are a fine, healthy pair
Of girls, whose love is prodigal and free.
Their virgin wombs, beneath the rags they wear,
Are barren, though they labour constantly.
To the arch poet, foe of families,
Hell's favourite, a cut-rate whore at court,
Brothels and tombs show in dark galleries
A bed never frequente... | Debauch and Death are a fine, healthy pair
Of girls, whose love is prodigal and free.
Their virgin wombs, beneath the rags they wear,
Are barren, though they labour constantly. | To the arch poet, foe of families,
Hell's favourite, a cut-rate whore at court,
Brothels and tombs show in dark galleries
A bed never frequented by remorse.
And coffin, alcove, rich in blasphemy,
As two good sisters would, offer as treats
Terrible pleasures, horrifying sweets.
Debauch, when will your clutches bury me? ... | sonnet |
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton) | The Road to Gundagai | The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track
Across the foothills grim and black,
Across the plains and ranges grey
To Sydney city far away.
* * * * *
It came by chance one day that I
From Tumut rode to Gundagai,
And reached about the evening tide
The crossing wh... | The mountain road goes up and down
From Gundagai to Tumut Town
And, branching off, there runs a track
Across the foothills grim and black,
Across the plains and ranges grey
To Sydney city far away.
* * * * *
It came by chance one day that I
From Tumut rode to Gundagai,
And reached about the evening tide
The crossing wh... | And, waiting at the crossing place,
I saw a maiden fair of face,
With eyes of deepest violet blue,
And cheeks to match the rose in hue,
The fairest maids Australia knows
Are bred among the mountain snows.
Then, fearing I might go astray,
I asked if she could show the way.
Her voice might well a man bewitch,
Its tones s... | free_verse |
Muriel Stuart | Enough. | Did he forget? ... I do not remember,
All I had of him once I still have to-day;
He was lovely to me as the word "amber,"
As the taste of honey and as the smell of hay.
What if he forget if I remember?
What more of love have you than I to say?
I have and hold him still in the word "amber,"
Taste of honey brings him, he... | Did he forget? ... I do not remember,
All I had of him once I still have to-day; | He was lovely to me as the word "amber,"
As the taste of honey and as the smell of hay.
What if he forget if I remember?
What more of love have you than I to say?
I have and hold him still in the word "amber,"
Taste of honey brings him, he comes back with the hay. | octave |
Dora Sigerson Shorter | A Bird From The West | At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
And 'Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!' ever sung.
Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
And home ... | At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
And 'Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!' ever sung.
Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
And home ... | I called: 'Arise! doth none remember me?'
One turn'd in the darkness murmuring,
'How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!'
We rested over Connaught-whispering said:
'Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.'
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
'The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.'
We flew low over Munst... | free_verse |
Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator) | The Princess Of Qulzum | (Ballade By Nur Uddin)
I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight;
I have seen the daughter of the King of Qulzum passing from grace to
grace.
Yesterday she threw her bed on the floor of her double house
And laughed with a thousand graces.
She has a little pearl and coral cap
And rides in a palanquin with se... | (Ballade By Nur Uddin)
I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight;
I have seen the daughter of the King of Qulzum passing from grace to
grace.
Yesterday she threw her bed on the floor of her double house
And laughed with a thousand graces.
She has a little pearl and coral cap
And rides in a palanquin with se... | And am not as young a girl as you pretend.
I am of Iran, of a powerful house, I am pure steel.
I hear that I am spoken of in Lahore."
I have seen a small proud face brimming with sunlight.
I also hear that they speak of you in Lahore,
You walk with a joyous step,
Your nails are red and the palms of your hands are rosy.... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. LXXXI. Proverbs. | To make your candles last for a',
You wives and maids give ear-o!
To put 'em out's the only way,
Says honest John Boldero. | To make your candles last for a', | You wives and maids give ear-o!
To put 'em out's the only way,
Says honest John Boldero. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Another. (Virgin Mary) | As sunbeams pierce the glass, and streaming in,
No crack or schism leave i' th' subtle skin:
So the Divine Hand worked and brake no thread,
But, in a mother, kept a maidenhead. | As sunbeams pierce the glass, and streaming in, | No crack or schism leave i' th' subtle skin:
So the Divine Hand worked and brake no thread,
But, in a mother, kept a maidenhead. | quatrain |
Thomas William Hodgson Crosland | Recipe | CHIDDEN still murmurs,
SLAPPED and RAPPED complain,
HURT, with a thousand tongues,
Whines out his pain.
This is the learning
Unto which we come:
PROPERLY WALLOPED
Is for ever dumb. | CHIDDEN still murmurs,
SLAPPED and RAPPED complain, | HURT, with a thousand tongues,
Whines out his pain.
This is the learning
Unto which we come:
PROPERLY WALLOPED
Is for ever dumb. | octave |
Victor James Daley | Symbols | 'Tis said that the Passion Flower,
With its figures of spear and sword
And hammer and nails, is a symbol
Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord.
So still in the Heart of Beauty
Has been hidden, since Life drew breath,
The sword and the spear of Anguish,
And the hammer and nails of Death. | 'Tis said that the Passion Flower,
With its figures of spear and sword | And hammer and nails, is a symbol
Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord.
So still in the Heart of Beauty
Has been hidden, since Life drew breath,
The sword and the spear of Anguish,
And the hammer and nails of Death. | octave |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Sacrifice | Though love repine, and reason chafe,
There came a voice without reply,--
''T is man's perdition to be safe,
When for the truth he ought to die.' | Though love repine, and reason chafe, | There came a voice without reply,--
''T is man's perdition to be safe,
When for the truth he ought to die.' | quatrain |
James Stephens | The College Of Science (The Rocky Road To Dublin) | Who knows a thing and will not tell
Shall spend eternity in hell;
But he who learns and teaches free
In heaven spends eternity.
Around the Leinster Lawn we go
Into Molesworth Street, and so
To Saint Stephen's Green, where we
Hang a banner on a tree. | Who knows a thing and will not tell
Shall spend eternity in hell; | But he who learns and teaches free
In heaven spends eternity.
Around the Leinster Lawn we go
Into Molesworth Street, and so
To Saint Stephen's Green, where we
Hang a banner on a tree. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXLIX. Natural History. | Little Bob Robin,
Where do you live?
Up in yonder wood, sir,
On a hazel twig. | Little Bob Robin, | Where do you live?
Up in yonder wood, sir,
On a hazel twig. | quatrain |
Sidney Lanier | Street Cries. | Oft seems the Time a market-town
Where many merchant-spirits meet
Who up and down and up and down
Cry out along the street
Their needs, as wares; one THUS, one SO:
Till all the ways are full of sound:
- But still come rain, and sun, and snow,
And still the world goes round. | Oft seems the Time a market-town
Where many merchant-spirits meet | Who up and down and up and down
Cry out along the street
Their needs, as wares; one THUS, one SO:
Till all the ways are full of sound:
- But still come rain, and sun, and snow,
And still the world goes round. | octave |
Lydia Howard Sigourney | In Memoriam. - Henry Howard Comstock, | Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford, February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.
It was a fair and mournful sight
Once at the wintry tide,
When to the dear baptismal rite
Was brought an infant, sweet and bright,
His father's couch beside,
His dying father's couch b... | Youngest child of the late Capt. JOHN C. COMSTOCK, died at Hartford, February 11th, 1862, a fortnight after his father, aged 11 months.
It was a fair and mournful sight
Once at the wintry tide,
When to the dear baptismal rite
Was brought an infant, sweet and bright,
His father's couch beside,
His dying father's couch b... | Whose eye, with tranquil ray,
Beheld upon that beauteous head
The consecrated water shed,
Then calmly pass'd away.
A little while the lovely babe,
As if by angels lent,
With soft caress and soothing wile
Invok'd a widow'd mother's smile,
Then to his father went.
Christ's holy seal upon his brow,
Christ's sign upon his ... | free_verse |
Hilaire Belloc | Lord Finchley | Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light
Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!
It is the business of the wealthy man
To give employment to the artisan. | Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light | Himself. It struck him dead: And serve him right!
It is the business of the wealthy man
To give employment to the artisan. | quatrain |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Jilted | Lucy done gone back on me,
Dat's de way wif life.
Evaht'ing was movin' free,
T'ought I had my wife.
Den some dahky comes along,
Sings my gal a little song,
Since den, evaht'ing's gone wrong,
Evah day dey 's strife.
Did n't answeh me to-day,
Wen I called huh name,
Would you t'ink she 'd ac' dat way
Wen I ain't to blame?... | Lucy done gone back on me,
Dat's de way wif life.
Evaht'ing was movin' free,
T'ought I had my wife.
Den some dahky comes along,
Sings my gal a little song,
Since den, evaht'ing's gone wrong,
Evah day dey 's strife. | Did n't answeh me to-day,
Wen I called huh name,
Would you t'ink she 'd ac' dat way
Wen I ain't to blame?
Dat 's de way dese women do,
Wen dey fin's a fellow true,
Den dey 'buse him thoo an' thoo;
Well, hit 's all de same.
Somep'n's wrong erbout my lung,
An' I 's glad hit 's so.
Doctah says 'at I 'll die young,
Well, I... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Clothes For Continuance. | Those garments lasting evermore,
Are works of mercy to the poor,
Which neither tettar, time, or moth
Shall fray that silk or fret this cloth.
| Those garments lasting evermore, | Are works of mercy to the poor,
Which neither tettar, time, or moth
Shall fray that silk or fret this cloth. | quatrain |
Sara Teasdale | The Prayer | My answered prayer came up to me,
And in the silence thus spake he:
"O you who prayed for me to come,
Your greeting is but cold and dumb."
My heart made answer: "You are fair,
But I have prayed too long to care.
Why came you not when all was new,
And I had died for joy of you." | My answered prayer came up to me,
And in the silence thus spake he: | "O you who prayed for me to come,
Your greeting is but cold and dumb."
My heart made answer: "You are fair,
But I have prayed too long to care.
Why came you not when all was new,
And I had died for joy of you." | octave |
Jonathan Swift | Dick, A Maggot | As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder'd o'er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot sallies out,
You know him by his hazel snout:
So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder'd rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For 'tis beyond the power of meal
The ... | As when, from rooting in a bin,
All powder'd o'er from tail to chin,
A lively maggot sallies out,
You know him by his hazel snout: | So when the grandson of his grandsire
Forth issues wriggling, Dick Drawcansir,
With powder'd rump and back and side,
You cannot blanch his tawny hide;
For 'tis beyond the power of meal
The gipsy visage to conceal;
For as he shakes his wainscot chops,
Down every mealy atom drops,
And leaves the tartar phiz in show,
Like... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Christ's Words On The Cross: My God, My God. | Christ, when He hung the dreadful cross upon,
Had, as it were, a dereliction
In this regard, in those great terrors He
Had no one beam from God's sweet majesty.
| Christ, when He hung the dreadful cross upon, | Had, as it were, a dereliction
In this regard, in those great terrors He
Had no one beam from God's sweet majesty. | quatrain |
Thomas Moore | Anacreontic. | in lachrymas verterat omne merum.
TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.
Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower:
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll tas... | in lachrymas verterat omne merum.
TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.
Press the grape, and let it pour | Around the board its purple shower:
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe. | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Perenna, A Mistress. | Dear Perenna, prithee come
And with smallage dress my tomb:
Add a cypress sprig thereto,
With a tear, and so Adieu. | Dear Perenna, prithee come | And with smallage dress my tomb:
Add a cypress sprig thereto,
With a tear, and so Adieu. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXIX. Jingles. | Hyder iddle diddle dell,
A yard of pudding's not an ell;
Not forgetting tweedle-dye,
A tailor's goose will never fly. | Hyder iddle diddle dell, | A yard of pudding's not an ell;
Not forgetting tweedle-dye,
A tailor's goose will never fly. | quatrain |
James Stephens | Dublin Men (The Rocky Road To Dublin) | A Dublin man will frown when he
Hears a tale of villainy;
But when a kindness you relate,
He swings and whistles on the gate. | A Dublin man will frown when he | Hears a tale of villainy;
But when a kindness you relate,
He swings and whistles on the gate. | quatrain |
William Blake | To Morning | O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun
Rous'd like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin'd feet a... | O holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth; | Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.
O radiant morning, salute the sun
Rous'd like a huntsman to the chase, and with
Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills. | octave |
Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni | The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - Nebuchadnezzar's Image. | Babel disfatta.
The golden head was Babylon; she passed:
Persia came next, the silvern breast: whereto
Joined brazen flank and belly--these are you,
Ye men of Macedon! Now Rome's the last.
Rome on two iron legs towered tall and vast;
But at her feet were toes of clay, that drew
Downfall: those scattered tribes erewhile... | Babel disfatta.
The golden head was Babylon; she passed:
Persia came next, the silvern breast: whereto
Joined brazen flank and belly--these are you,
Ye men of Macedon! Now Rome's the last. | Rome on two iron legs towered tall and vast;
But at her feet were toes of clay, that drew
Downfall: those scattered tribes erewhile she knew
For lords; now 'neath her fatal sway they're cast.
Ah thirsty soil! From your parched fallow fumes
A smoke of pride, vain-glory, cruelty,
That blinds, infects, and blackens, and c... | free_verse |
Friedrich Schiller | Wisdom And Prudence. | Wouldst thou, my friend, mount up to the highest summit of wisdom,
Be not deterred by the fear, prudence thy course may deride
That shortsighted one sees but the bank that from thee is flying,
Not the one which ere long thou wilt attain with bold flight. | Wouldst thou, my friend, mount up to the highest summit of wisdom, | Be not deterred by the fear, prudence thy course may deride
That shortsighted one sees but the bank that from thee is flying,
Not the one which ere long thou wilt attain with bold flight. | quatrain |
Christina Georgina Rossetti | After Communion. | Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?
Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?
Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?
Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod?
Lo, now Thy banner over me is love,
All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod:
For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod,
Made me a nest for dwelling o... | Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?
Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?
Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?
Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod? | Lo, now Thy banner over me is love,
All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod:
For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod,
Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove.
What wilt Thou call me in our home above,
Who now hast called me friend? how will it be
When Thou for good wine settest forth the best?
Now Thou dost bid me come... | sonnet |
Matthew Prior | The Remedy Worse Than The Disease | 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 |
Robert Burns | Written In A Lady's Pocket-Book. | Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were. | Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live | To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | "If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking," | If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain. | If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain; | If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain. | free_verse |
Arthur Macy | To M. E. | We keep in step as years roll by;
You march behind and I before: -
The path is new to you; but I
Have passed the ground you're walking o'er.
Yet I march on with measured tread,
And looking back, I smile and greet you: -
I fear the order, "Halt!" Instead,
Would I might countermarch and meet you. | We keep in step as years roll by;
You march behind and I before: - | The path is new to you; but I
Have passed the ground you're walking o'er.
Yet I march on with measured tread,
And looking back, I smile and greet you: -
I fear the order, "Halt!" Instead,
Would I might countermarch and meet you. | octave |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Cabbage | Here is a tale for any one who wishes:
There grew a cabbage once among the flowers,
A plain, broad cabbage a good wench, whose hours
Were kitchen-busy with plebeian dishes.
The rose and lily, toilless, without mottle,
Patricians born, despised her: "How unpleasant!"
They cried;"What odour! Worse than any peasant
Who so... | Here is a tale for any one who wishes:
There grew a cabbage once among the flowers,
A plain, broad cabbage a good wench, whose hours
Were kitchen-busy with plebeian dishes. | The rose and lily, toilless, without mottle,
Patricians born, despised her: "How unpleasant!"
They cried;"What odour! Worse than any peasant
Who soils God's air! Give us our smelling- bottle."
There came a gentleman who owned the garden,
Looking about him at both flower and edible,
Admiring here and there; a simple sin... | sonnet |
W. M. MacKeracher | The Joy Of Creation. | How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind
With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,
Ever new self-expressive forms to find
In those six days of rapturous employ!
How must He have delighted when He made
The stars, and meted ocean with His span,
And formed the insect and the tender blade,
And fashioned, after His own ... | How must have thrilled the great Creator's mind
With radiant, glad and satisfying joy,
Ever new self-expressive forms to find
In those six days of rapturous employ! | How must He have delighted when He made
The stars, and meted ocean with His span,
And formed the insect and the tender blade,
And fashioned, after His own image, man!
And unto man such joy in his degree
He hath appointed, work of mind and hand,
To mould in forms of useful symmetry
Words, hues, wood, iron, stone, at his... | sonnet |
Walter R. Cassels | The Delectable Mountains. | How light and pleasant is the way
Across this quiet valley, whose soft mead
Springs lightly as the air that angels tread,
Beneath our footsteps weariless all day!
This crystal river flowing by our side,
One stream of sunshine, still has seem'd a guide
From Heaven in pure angelical array.
These purple mountains now are ... | How light and pleasant is the way
Across this quiet valley, whose soft mead
Springs lightly as the air that angels tread,
Beneath our footsteps weariless all day!
This crystal river flowing by our side,
One stream of sunshine, still has seem'd a guide
From Heaven in pure angelical array.
These purple mountains now are ... | Earth groweth little in our eyes, but fair,
Fair as though sin had never enter'd there--
Earth groweth little as Heaven draweth near.
This rock--and then at last we stand
Upon the silent summit--scarce I dare
Gaze outward, through the clear and azure air,
Towards the radiance of the Promised Land:
I am so weak and fall... | free_verse |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: A Tale Untold. | One sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting;
Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold,
Which mock the lips with air, when they are thirsting. | One sung of thee who left the tale untold, | Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting;
Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold,
Which mock the lips with air, when they are thirsting. | quatrain |
William Wordsworth | From The Dark Chambers Of Dejection Freed | From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise, Gillies, rise; the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be ... | From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise, Gillies, rise; the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed. | Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,
And reason govern that audacious flight
Which heavenward they direct. Then droop not thou,
Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low de... | sonnet |
Vachel Lindsay | Crickets on a Strike | The foolish queen of fairyland
From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell,
Gave command to her cricket-band
To play for her when the dew-drops fell.
But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. | The foolish queen of fairyland
From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, | Gave command to her cricket-band
To play for her when the dew-drops fell.
But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor. | octave |
John Clare | To John Clare | Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock robin to the stye is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
... | Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock robin to the stye is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; | And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the stye; the bookman comes--
The little boy lets home-close nesting go,
And pockets tops and taws, where daisies bloom,... | sonnet |
Jean Ingelow | A Cottage In A Chine. | We reached the place by night,
And heard the waves breaking:
They came to meet us with candles alight
To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
With tufted flowers down shaking.
With head beneath her wing,
A little wren was sleeping -
So near, I had found it an easy thing
To steal her f... | We reached the place by night,
And heard the waves breaking:
They came to meet us with candles alight
To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
With tufted flowers down shaking.
With head beneath her wing,
A little wren was sleeping -
So near, I had found it an easy thing
To steal her f... | So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mark,
The trouble that joy kept under.
I rose - the moon outshone:
I saw the sea heaving,
And a little vessel sailing alone,
The small crisp wavelet cleaving;
'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown -
Was that track of sweetness leaving.
We know they music made
In heaven, e... | free_verse |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Night | As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer... | As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer... | I only see with my external sight,
And only hear the great world's voice which rings.
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me - whispers, "Look within!"
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what IS - no longer what doth seem.
The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear
Revealed, as are... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXVIII. Paradoxes. | Barney Bodkin broke his nose,
Without feet we can't have toes;
Crazy folks are always mad,
Want of money makes us sad. | Barney Bodkin broke his nose, | Without feet we can't have toes;
Crazy folks are always mad,
Want of money makes us sad. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | To The Most Accomplished Gentleman, M. Michael Oulsworth. | Nor think that thou in this my book art worst,
Because not plac'd here with the midst, or first.
Since fame that sides with these, or goes before
Those, that must live with thee for evermore;
That fame, and fame's rear'd pillar, thou shalt see
In the next sheet, brave man, to follow thee.
Fix on that column then, and n... | Nor think that thou in this my book art worst,
Because not plac'd here with the midst, or first. | Since fame that sides with these, or goes before
Those, that must live with thee for evermore;
That fame, and fame's rear'd pillar, thou shalt see
In the next sheet, brave man, to follow thee.
Fix on that column then, and never fall,
Held up by Fame's eternal pedestal. | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXIII - Confirmation | The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale,
With holiday delight on every brow:
'Tis passed away; far other thoughts prevail;
For they are taking the baptismal Vow
Upon their conscious selves; their own lips speak
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail,
And many a blooming, many a lovely, cheek
Under the holy fea... | The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale,
With holiday delight on every brow:
'Tis passed away; far other thoughts prevail;
For they are taking the baptismal Vow | Upon their conscious selves; their own lips speak
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail,
And many a blooming, many a lovely, cheek
Under the holy fear of God turns pale;
While on each head his lawn-robed Servant lays
An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals
The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise
Their feeble Souls... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Disenchantment. | It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf. | It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground, | And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf. | octave |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | The Wish | Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,
"Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start,
But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow,
Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."
This were my wish! - from my life's dim beginning
LET BE WHAT HAS BEEN! wisdom planned the whole
My want, my woe, my errors, and my sin... | Should some great angel say to me to-morrow,
"Thou must re-tread thy pathway from the start, | But God will grant, in pity, for thy sorrow,
Some one dear wish, the nearest to thy heart."
This were my wish! - from my life's dim beginning
LET BE WHAT HAS BEEN! wisdom planned the whole
My want, my woe, my errors, and my sinning,
All, all were needed lessons for my soul. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Lovers How They Come And Part | A Gyges ring they bear about them still,
To be, and not seen when and where they will;
They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
They fall like dew, and make no noise at all:
So silently they one to th' other come,
As colours steal into the pear or plum,
And air-like, leave no pression to be seen
Where'er t... | A Gyges ring they bear about them still,
To be, and not seen when and where they will; | They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
They fall like dew, and make no noise at all:
So silently they one to th' other come,
As colours steal into the pear or plum,
And air-like, leave no pression to be seen
Where'er they met, or parting place has been. | octave |
Thomas Moore | The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode. | Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.
There lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreathed,
Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
This magic shell,
From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of ... | Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.
There lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreathed,
Such as of old
Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
This magic shell,
From the white bosom of a syren fell,
As once she wandered by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of ... | Many a star has ceased to burn,[6]
Many a tear has Saturn's urn
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,
Since thy aerial spell
Hath in the waters slept.
Now blest I'll fly
With the bright treasure to my choral sky,
Where she, who waked its early swell,
The Syren of the heavenly choir.
Walks o'er the great string of my O... | free_verse |
Walt Whitman | I Sing The Body Electric | I sing the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves;
And if those who defile th... | I sing the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves;
And if those who defile th... | Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, the atmosphere and the clouds, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed;
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it - the response likewise ungovernable;
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands, all diffused - mi... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Cruelty. | 'Tis but a dog-like madness in bad kings,
For to delight in wounds and murderings:
As some plants prosper best by cuts and blows,
So kings by killing do increase their foes. | 'Tis but a dog-like madness in bad kings, | For to delight in wounds and murderings:
As some plants prosper best by cuts and blows,
So kings by killing do increase their foes. | quatrain |
William Morris | The Two Sides Of The River | The Youths.
O Winter, O white winter, wert thou gone
No more within the wilds were I alone
Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone!
No more alone my love the lamp should burn,
Watching the weary spindle twist and turn,
Or o'er the web hold back her tears and yearn:
O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone!
The Maide... | The Youths.
O Winter, O white winter, wert thou gone
No more within the wilds were I alone
Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone!
No more alone my love the lamp should burn,
Watching the weary spindle twist and turn,
Or o'er the web hold back her tears and yearn:
O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone!
The Maide... | The Maidens.
O love, to-night across the half-shorn plain
Shall I not go to meet the yellow wain,
A look of love at end of toil to gain?
What flaming sun can keep us long alone?
The Youths.
To-morrow, said I, is grape gathering o'er;
To-morrow, and our loves are twinned no more
To-morrow came, to bring us woe and war.
... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. LX. Tales. | Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig, and away he run!
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street. | Tom, Tom, the piper's son, | Stole a pig, and away he run!
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street. | quatrain |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Twilight | 'Twixt a smile and a tear,
'Twixt a song and a sigh,
'Twixt the day and the dark,
When the night draweth nigh.
Ah, sunshine may fade
From the heavens above,
No twilight have we
To the day of our love. | 'Twixt a smile and a tear,
'Twixt a song and a sigh, | 'Twixt the day and the dark,
When the night draweth nigh.
Ah, sunshine may fade
From the heavens above,
No twilight have we
To the day of our love. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | This Merit Hath The Worst, | This merit hath the worst, --
It cannot be again.
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe,
And glance securely round.
The deer invites no longer
Than it eludes the hound. | This merit hath the worst, --
It cannot be again. | When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe,
And glance securely round.
The deer invites no longer
Than it eludes the hound. | octave |
Bliss Carman (William) | A Good-By. | For love of the roving foot
And joy of the roving eye,
God send you store of morrows fair
And a good rest by and by! | For love of the roving foot | And joy of the roving eye,
God send you store of morrows fair
And a good rest by and by! | quatrain |
Sara Teasdale | Rispetto | Was that his step that sounded on the stair?
Was that his knock I heard upon the door?
I grow so tired I almost cease to care,
And yet I would that he might come once more.
It was the wind I heard, that mocks at me,
The bitter wind that is more cruel than he;
It was the wind that knocked upon the door,
But he will neve... | Was that his step that sounded on the stair?
Was that his knock I heard upon the door? | I grow so tired I almost cease to care,
And yet I would that he might come once more.
It was the wind I heard, that mocks at me,
The bitter wind that is more cruel than he;
It was the wind that knocked upon the door,
But he will never knock nor enter more. | octave |
Robert Herrick | The Departure Of The Good Demon. | What can I do in poetry
Now the good spirit's gone from me?
Why, nothing now but lonely sit
And over-read what I have writ. | What can I do in poetry | Now the good spirit's gone from me?
Why, nothing now but lonely sit
And over-read what I have writ. | quatrain |
Henry Lawson | Scots Of The Riverina | The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time,
They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned.
A year went past and another. There were calls fro... | The boy cleared out to the city from his home at harvest time,
They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a crime.
The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife's back was turned.
A year went past and another. There were calls fro... | His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai,
They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.
The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned.
His mother's arms were about him; but the old man's back was turned.
The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his hand... | free_verse |
John Frederick Freeman | Memorial | The wild October sky
Rises not so high,
The tree's roots that creep
Into the earth's body thrust not so deep
As our high and dark thought.
Yet thought need not roam
Far off to bring you home.
The sky is our wild mind,
Your roots are round our spirits twined,
To ours are your hearts caught.
O, never buried dead!
The liv... | The wild October sky
Rises not so high,
The tree's roots that creep
Into the earth's body thrust not so deep
As our high and dark thought. | Yet thought need not roam
Far off to bring you home.
The sky is our wild mind,
Your roots are round our spirits twined,
To ours are your hearts caught.
O, never buried dead!
The living brain in the head
Is not so quick as you
Burning our conscious darkness through
With brightness past our thought. | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Unimaginative | Each form of beauty's but the new disguise
Of thoughts more beautiful than forms can be;
Sceptics, who search with unanointed eyes,
Never the Earth's wild fairy-dance shall see. | Each form of beauty's but the new disguise | Of thoughts more beautiful than forms can be;
Sceptics, who search with unanointed eyes,
Never the Earth's wild fairy-dance shall see. | quatrain |
Frank Sidgwick | The Laily Worm And The Machrel Of The Sea | The Text of this mutilated ballad is taken from the Skene MS., where it was written down from recitation in the North of Scotland about 1802.
The Story is of a double transformation of a sister and brother by a stepmother. Compare the story of The Marriage of Sir Gawaine (First Series, p. 108). Allison Gross should be ... | The Text of this mutilated ballad is taken from the Skene MS., where it was written down from recitation in the North of Scotland about 1802.
The Story is of a double transformation of a sister and brother by a stepmother. Compare the story of The Marriage of Sir Gawaine (First Series, p. 108). Allison Gross should be ... | 'I never sung that song but what
I would sing it to thee.
6.
'I was but seven year auld,
When my mither she did die;
My father married the ae warst woman
The warld did ever see.
7.
'For she changed me to the laily worm,
That lies at the fit o' the tree,
And my sister Masery
To the machrel of the sea.
8.
'And every Satu... | free_verse |
John Collings Squire, Sir | Interior | I and myself swore enmity. Alack,
Myself has tied my hands behind my back.
Yielding, I know there's no excuse in them,
I was accomplice to the stratagem. | I and myself swore enmity. Alack, | Myself has tied my hands behind my back.
Yielding, I know there's no excuse in them,
I was accomplice to the stratagem. | quatrain |
William Wordsworth | The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XXIX - No Record Tells Of Lance Opposed To Lance | No record tells of lance opposed to lance,
Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired domains;
Tells that their turf drank purple from the veins
Of heroes, fallen, or struggling to advance,
Till doubtful combat issued in a trance
Of victory, that struck through heart and reins
Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains,
And... | No record tells of lance opposed to lance,
Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired domains;
Tells that their turf drank purple from the veins
Of heroes, fallen, or struggling to advance, | Till doubtful combat issued in a trance
Of victory, that struck through heart and reins
Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains,
And lightened o'er the pallid countenance.
Yet, to the loyal and the brave, who lie
In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn,
The passing Winds memorial tribute pay;
The Torrents chant their... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Letcher. Epig. | Letcher was carted first about the streets,
For false position in his neighbour's sheets:
Next, hanged for thieving: now the people say,
His carting was the prologue to this play. | Letcher was carted first about the streets, | For false position in his neighbour's sheets:
Next, hanged for thieving: now the people say,
His carting was the prologue to this play. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | Angels | Came of old to houses lonely
Men with wings, but did not show them:
Angels come to our house, only,
For their wings, they do not know them! | Came of old to houses lonely | Men with wings, but did not show them:
Angels come to our house, only,
For their wings, they do not know them! | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DCLV. Relics. | Jacky, come give me thy fiddle
If ever thou mean to thrive;
Nay, I'll not give my fiddle,
To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day
My fiddle and I have had. | Jacky, come give me thy fiddle
If ever thou mean to thrive; | Nay, I'll not give my fiddle,
To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
They'll think that I'm gone mad,
For many a joyful day
My fiddle and I have had. | octave |
Robert Herrick | To His Book (3) | Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear
The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe;
But by the Muses swear, all here is good,
If but well read, or ill read, understood.
| Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear | The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe;
But by the Muses swear, all here is good,
If but well read, or ill read, understood. | quatrain |
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