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Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa | Sonnet XXVII. | How yesterday is long ago! The past
Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day,
And bygone things, the first-lived as the last,
In irreparable sameness far away.
How the to-be is infinitely ever
Out of the place wherein it will be Now,
Like the seen wave yet far up in the river,
Which reaches not us, but the new-waved fl... | How yesterday is long ago! The past
Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day,
And bygone things, the first-lived as the last,
In irreparable sameness far away. | How the to-be is infinitely ever
Out of the place wherein it will be Now,
Like the seen wave yet far up in the river,
Which reaches not us, but the new-waved flow!
This thing Time is, whose being is having none,
The equable tyrant of our different fates,
Who could not be bought off by a shattered sun
Or tricked by new ... | sonnet |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | Protest: By Zahir-u-Din | Alas! alas! this wasted Night
With all its Jasmin-scented air,
Its thousand stars, serenely bright!
I lie alone, and long for you,
Long for your Champa-scented hair,
Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;
Long for the close-curved, delicate lips
- Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine -
Here, where the slender fountain dr... | Alas! alas! this wasted Night
With all its Jasmin-scented air,
Its thousand stars, serenely bright!
I lie alone, and long for you,
Long for your Champa-scented hair,
Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;
Long for the close-curved, delicate lips
- Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine -
Here, where the slender fountain dr... | Inhale warm breezes from the South,
Yet never fed his fancy stray.
From some near Village I can hear
The cadenced throbbing of a drum,
Now softly distant, now more near;
And in an almost human fashion,
It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come
Laden with sighs of fitful passion,
To mock me, lying here alone
Among the thous... | free_verse |
Matthew Arnold | The Buried Life | Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy ga... | Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy ga... | How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue... | free_verse |
Robert Lee Frost | Range-Finding | The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest
Before it stained a single human breast.
The stricken flower bent double and so hung.
And still the bird revisited her young.
A butterfly its fall had dispossessed
A moment sought in air his flower of rest,
Then lightly stooped to it a... | The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest
Before it stained a single human breast.
The stricken flower bent double and so hung. | And still the bird revisited her young.
A butterfly its fall had dispossessed
A moment sought in air his flower of rest,
Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung.
On the bare upland pasture there had spread
O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread
And straining cables wet with silver dew.
A sudden passi... | sonnet |
Robert Burns | On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway. | What dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind! | What dost thou in that mansion fair? | Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind! | quatrain |
William Lisle Bowles | Silchester, The Ancient Caleva.[199] | The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,
Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,
Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]
The buried coins of mighty men are found,
Silent remains of C'sars and of kings,
Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,
In its sad story! These have had their day
Of glory, and h... | The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,
Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,
Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]
The buried coins of mighty men are found,
Silent remains of C'sars and of kings,
Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,
In its sad story! These have had their day
Of glory, and h... | That, now, a lone and broken column stands!
Ask of that road - whose track alone remains -
That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and plains;
And still along the silent champagne leads;
Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds?
Ask of the dead, and silence will reply;
Go, seek them in the grave of mortal va... | free_verse |
Robert Burns | On The Same. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.) | Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
So ended in a mire. | Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, | Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
So ended in a mire. | quatrain |
Edward Shanks | Song: Recollection. | Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,
Against the paling sky is lost:
On the pool's dark sheet below,
The candid water-daisies glow.
As I came up and saw from far
The water littered, star on star,
I thought the may had left its hedge
To float upon the pool's dark edge. | Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,
Against the paling sky is lost: | On the pool's dark sheet below,
The candid water-daisies glow.
As I came up and saw from far
The water littered, star on star,
I thought the may had left its hedge
To float upon the pool's dark edge. | octave |
Hilaire Belloc | Juliet | How did the party go in Portman Square?
I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there.
And how did Lady Gaster's party go?
Juliet was next me and I do not know. | How did the party go in Portman Square? | I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there.
And how did Lady Gaster's party go?
Juliet was next me and I do not know. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Temptation. | God tempteth no one, as St. Austin saith,
For any ill, but for the proof of faith;
Unto temptation God exposeth some,
But none of purpose to be overcome. | God tempteth no one, as St. Austin saith, | For any ill, but for the proof of faith;
Unto temptation God exposeth some,
But none of purpose to be overcome. | quatrain |
Oliver Herford | Guglielmo Marconi | I like Marconi best to see
Beneath a Macaroni tree
Playing that Nocturne in F Sharp
By Chopin, on a Wireless Harp. | I like Marconi best to see | Beneath a Macaroni tree
Playing that Nocturne in F Sharp
By Chopin, on a Wireless Harp. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | The Sadness Of Things For Sappho's Sickness. | Lilies will languish; violets look ill;
Sickly the primrose; pale the daffodil;
That gallant tulip will hang down his head,
Like to a virgin newly ravished;
Pansies will weep, and marigolds will wither,
And keep a fast and funeral together;
Sappho droop, daisies will open never,
But bid good-night, and close their lids... | Lilies will languish; violets look ill;
Sickly the primrose; pale the daffodil; | That gallant tulip will hang down his head,
Like to a virgin newly ravished;
Pansies will weep, and marigolds will wither,
And keep a fast and funeral together;
Sappho droop, daisies will open never,
But bid good-night, and close their lids for ever. | octave |
John Keats | Sonnet XV: On The Grasshopper And Cricket | The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's, he takes the lead
In summer luxury, he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease bene... | The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; | That is the Grasshopper's, he takes the lead
In summer luxury, he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's so... | sonnet |
Fernando Ant'nio Nogueira Pessoa | Sonnet VIII. | How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use ... | How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain? | The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces,
Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,
Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a who... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Dreams. | Let me not mar that perfect dream
By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again. | Let me not mar that perfect dream | By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again. | quatrain |
William Lisle Bowles | To A Friend | Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears;
To busy phantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee; but 'twill not be long
Ere the hard season shall be past; till then
Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
Nor, 'mid the ... | Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears;
To busy phantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee; but 'twill not be long | Ere the hard season shall be past; till then
Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and hum of men,
Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness
To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow,
Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow
Of winter pale, t... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CLXXXV. Riddles. | [Sunshine.]
Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more,
On the king's kitchen-door;
All the king's horses,
And all the king's men,
Couldn't drive Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more,
Off the king's kitchen-door! | [Sunshine.]
Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more, | On the king's kitchen-door;
All the king's horses,
And all the king's men,
Couldn't drive Hick-a-more, Hack-a-more,
Off the king's kitchen-door! | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Bush-Sparrow | I.
Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms,
Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;
And in the whistling hollow there
The red-bud bends, as brown and bare
As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm;
From some gray hickory or larch,
Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March,
The sad heart thrills and reddens warm
To hear you braving the ro... | I.
Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms,
Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;
And in the whistling hollow there
The red-bud bends, as brown and bare
As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm;
From some gray hickory or larch,
Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March,
The sad heart thrills and reddens warm
To hear you braving the ro... | And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang
In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang
Sharp beaks and talons of the wind:
Black scowl the forests, and unkind
The far fields as the near: while song
Seems murdered and all beauty wrong.
One weak frog only in the thaw
Of spawny pools wakes cold and raw,
Expires a melancholy bass
... | free_verse |
John Milton | To Leonora (3) | Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,
That, when Parthenope1 deceas'd, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic2 grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
Of magic song both Gods... | Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more
The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore, | That, when Parthenope1 deceas'd, she gave
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic2 grave,
For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course,
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,
Of magic song both Gods and Men detains. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Upon Strut. | Strut, once a foreman of a shop we knew;
But turn'd a ladies' usher now, 'tis true:
Tell me, has Strut got e're a title more?
No; he's but foreman, as he was before. | Strut, once a foreman of a shop we knew; | But turn'd a ladies' usher now, 'tis true:
Tell me, has Strut got e're a title more?
No; he's but foreman, as he was before. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Another To The Maids | Wash your hands, or else the fire
Will not tend to your desire;
Unwashed hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire, though ye blow. | Wash your hands, or else the fire | Will not tend to your desire;
Unwashed hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire, though ye blow. | quatrain |
John Keats | Sonnet: As From The Darkening Gloom A Silver Dove | As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
So fled thy soul into the realms above,
Regions of peace and everlasting love;
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
Taste the high joy ... | As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
So fled thy soul into the realms above, | Regions of peace and everlasting love;
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove.
There thou or joinest the immortal quire
In melodies that even heaven fair
Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,
Of the omnipotent Father, ... | sonnet |
Archibald Lampman | The Weaver. | All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
"Oh, come away, or we die!"
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of fl... | All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
"Oh, come away, or we die!"
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of fl... | "Come away, dear soul, come away, or we die;
Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them this day;
The battle-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay."
"Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain,
When pain is wher... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. LXXVI. Tales. | There was a king and he had three daughter,
And they all lived in a basin of water;
The basin bended,
My story's ended.
If the basin had been stronger,
My story would have been longer. | There was a king and he had three daughter,
And they all lived in a basin of water; | The basin bended,
My story's ended.
If the basin had been stronger,
My story would have been longer. | free_verse |
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde | Poem: At Verona | How steep the stairs within Kings' houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound's table, better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essenc... | How steep the stairs within Kings' houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound's table, better far | That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day'
Nay peace: behind my prison's ... | sonnet |
William Butler Yeats | A Needle's Eye | All the stream that's roaring by
Came out of a needle's eye;
Things unborn, things that are gone,
From needle's eye still goad it on. | All the stream that's roaring by | Came out of a needle's eye;
Things unborn, things that are gone,
From needle's eye still goad it on. | quatrain |
George William Russell | The Hermit | Now the quietude of earth
Nestles deep my heart within;
Friendships new and strange have birth
Since I left the city's din.
Here the tempest stays its guile,
Like a big kind brother plays,
Romps and pauses here awhile
From its immemorial ways.
Now the silver light of dawn
Slipping through the leaves that fleck
My one w... | Now the quietude of earth
Nestles deep my heart within;
Friendships new and strange have birth
Since I left the city's din.
Here the tempest stays its guile,
Like a big kind brother plays,
Romps and pauses here awhile
From its immemorial ways. | Now the silver light of dawn
Slipping through the leaves that fleck
My one window, hurries on,
Throws its arms around my neck.
Darkness to my doorway hies,
Lays her chin upon the roof,
And her burning seraph eyes
Now no longer keep aloof.
Here the ancient mystery
Holds its hands out day by day,
Takes a chair and croons... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Why Flowers Change Colour | These fresh beauties, we can prove,
Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come. | These fresh beauties, we can prove, | Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Forest Way | I
I climbed a forest path and found
A dim cave in the dripping ground,
Where dwelt the spirit of cool sound,
Who wrought with crystal triangles,
And hollowed foam of rippled bells,
A music of mysterious spells.
II
Where Sleep her bubble-jewels spilled
Of dreams; and Silence twilight-filled
Her emerald buckets, star-ins... | I
I climbed a forest path and found
A dim cave in the dripping ground,
Where dwelt the spirit of cool sound,
Who wrought with crystal triangles,
And hollowed foam of rippled bells,
A music of mysterious spells.
II
Where Sleep her bubble-jewels spilled
Of dreams; and Silence twilight-filled
Her emerald buckets, star-ins... | With liquid whispers of lost springs,
And mossy tread of woodland things,
And drip of dew that greenly clings.
III
Here by those servitors of Sound,
Warders of that enchanted ground,
My soul and sense were seized and bound,
And, in a dungeon deep of trees
Entranced, were laid at lazy ease,
The charge of woodland myster... | free_verse |
Walter Crane | The Fox & The Mosquitoes | Being plagued with Mosquitoes one day,
Said old Fox, "pray don't send them away,
For a hungrier swarm
Would work me more harm;
I had rather the full ones should stay."
There Were Politicians In 'sop's Time | Being plagued with Mosquitoes one day,
Said old Fox, "pray don't send them away, | For a hungrier swarm
Would work me more harm;
I had rather the full ones should stay."
There Were Politicians In 'sop's Time | free_verse |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Turquoise | A baby went to heaven while it slept,
And, waking, missed its mother's arms, and wept.
Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through
God's azure skies, into the turquoise grew. | A baby went to heaven while it slept, | And, waking, missed its mother's arms, and wept.
Those angel tear-drops, falling earthward through
God's azure skies, into the turquoise grew. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | Who Lights The Fire? | Who lights the fire--that forth so gracefully
And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke?
Some pretty one who never felt the yoke--
Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she.
Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be!
Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke;
But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke,
Nor kitchen-maid has done it ... | Who lights the fire--that forth so gracefully
And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke?
Some pretty one who never felt the yoke--
Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she. | Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be!
Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke;
But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke,
Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly!
Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out
For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture--
His name or nature, sex or age or vesture!
The fire was lit by human care... | sonnet |
Matthew Arnold | To a Friend | Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.
Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cl... | Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?
He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. | Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But be his
My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,
From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;
Who... | sonnet |
Nicholas Breton | Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon | Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair,
There shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O bless'd hill!
Was never hill so bless'd),
There stood a... | Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair,
There shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O bless'd hill!
Was never hill so bless'd),
There stood a... | Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
To hap on such a face.
He pity cried, and pity came
And pitied so his pain,
As dying would not let him die
But gave him life again.
For joy whereof he made such mirth
As all the woods did ring;
And Pan with all his swains came forth
To hear the shepherd sing;
But such a song sung ne... | free_verse |
Morris Rosenfeld | For Hire | Work with might and main,
Or with hand and heart,
Work with soul and brain,
Or with holy art,
Thread, or genius' fire--
Make a vest, or verse--
If 'tis done for hire,
It is done the worse. | Work with might and main,
Or with hand and heart, | Work with soul and brain,
Or with holy art,
Thread, or genius' fire--
Make a vest, or verse--
If 'tis done for hire,
It is done the worse. | octave |
John McCrae | In Due Season | If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the ... | If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought, | And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught
If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone." | octave |
Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev | Nature | I dreamed I had come into an immense underground temple with lofty arched roof. It was filled with a sort of underground uniform light.
In the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe of green colour. Her head propped on her hand, she seemed buried in deep thought.
At once I was aware that this ... | I dreamed I had come into an immense underground temple with lofty arched roof. It was filled with a sort of underground uniform light.
In the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe of green colour. Her head propped on her hand, she seemed buried in deep thought.
At once I was aware that this ... | The woman slowly turned upon me her dark menacing eyes. Her lips moved, and I heard a ringing voice like the clang of iron.
'I am thinking how to give greater power to the leg-muscles of the flea, that he may more easily escape from his enemies. The balance of attack and defence is broken.... It must be restored.'
'Wha... | free_verse |
Hilaire Belloc | On The Little God | Of all the gods that gave me all their glories
To-day there deigns to walk with me but one.
I lead him by the hand and tell him stories.
It is the Queen of Cyprus' little son. | Of all the gods that gave me all their glories | To-day there deigns to walk with me but one.
I lead him by the hand and tell him stories.
It is the Queen of Cyprus' little son. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | On Reading The Life Of Haroun Er Reshid | Down all the lanterned Bagdad of our youth
He steals, with golden justice for the poor:
Within his palace you shall know the truth!
A blood-smeared headsman hides behind each door. | Down all the lanterned Bagdad of our youth | He steals, with golden justice for the poor:
Within his palace you shall know the truth!
A blood-smeared headsman hides behind each door. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | To The Honoured Master Endymion Porter. | When to thy porch I come and ravish'd see
The state of poets there attending thee,
Those bards and I, all in a chorus sing:
We are thy prophets, Porter, thou our king. | When to thy porch I come and ravish'd see | The state of poets there attending thee,
Those bards and I, all in a chorus sing:
We are thy prophets, Porter, thou our king. | quatrain |
Robert Burns | On William Smellie. | Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd:
Yet tho' his caustic wit was bitin... | Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same; | His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd:
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. | octave |
Thomas Hardy | The Seasons Of Her Year | I
Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
II
O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone - alone! | I
Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me, | And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
II
O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone - alone! | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To His Honoured And Most Ingenious Friend Mr. Charles Cotton | For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration:
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony, and weight.
Tell'st when a verse springs high, how understood
To be, or not born of ... | For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Words fully flowing, yet of influence:
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,
Worthy the public admiration: | Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,
And giv'st our numbers euphony, and weight.
Tell'st when a verse springs high, how understood
To be, or not born of the Royal blood.
What state above, what symmetry below,
Lines have, or should have, thou the best canst show.
For which (my Charles) it is my pride to be,... | sonnet |
Robert Lee Frost | To The Thawing Wind | Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
... | Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white; | But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door. | free_verse |
Robert Laurence Binyon | Testamentum Amoris | I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep,
But I am visited with thoughts of you;
Slumber has no refreshment half so deep
As the sweet morn, that wakes my heart anew.
I cannot put away life's trivial care,
But you straightway steal on me with delight:
My purest moments are your mirror fair;
My deepest thought finds you t... | I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep,
But I am visited with thoughts of you;
Slumber has no refreshment half so deep
As the sweet morn, that wakes my heart anew. | I cannot put away life's trivial care,
But you straightway steal on me with delight:
My purest moments are your mirror fair;
My deepest thought finds you the truth most bright.
You are the lovely regent of my mind,
The constant sky to my unresting sea;
Yet, since 'tis you that rule me, I but find
A finer freedom in suc... | sonnet |
Christina Georgina Rossetti | The Descent From The Cross. | Is this the Face that thrills with awe
Seraphs who veil their face above?
Is this the Face without a flaw,
The Face that is the Face of Love?
Yea, this defaced, a lifeless clod,
Hath all creation's love sufficed,
Hath satisfied the love of God,
This Face the Face of Jesus Christ. | Is this the Face that thrills with awe
Seraphs who veil their face above? | Is this the Face without a flaw,
The Face that is the Face of Love?
Yea, this defaced, a lifeless clod,
Hath all creation's love sufficed,
Hath satisfied the love of God,
This Face the Face of Jesus Christ. | octave |
William Kerr | Counting Sheep | Half-awake I walked
A dimly-seen sweet hawthorn lane
Until sleep came;
I lingered at a gate and talked
A little with a lonely lamb.
He told me of the great still night,
Of calm starlight,
And of the lady moon, who'd stoop
For a kiss sometimes;
Of grass as soft as sleep, of rhymes
The tired flowers sang:
The ageless Apr... | Half-awake I walked
A dimly-seen sweet hawthorn lane
Until sleep came;
I lingered at a gate and talked
A little with a lonely lamb.
He told me of the great still night,
Of calm starlight,
And of the lady moon, who'd stoop
For a kiss sometimes;
Of grass as soft as sleep, of rhymes | The tired flowers sang:
The ageless April tales
Of how, when sheep grew old,
As their faith told,
They went without a pang
To far green fields, where fall
Perpetual streams that call
To deathless nightingales.
And then I saw, hard by,
A shepherd lad with shining eyes,
And round him gathered one by one
Countless sheep, ... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | Cave Of Staffa | Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot,
Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot,
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames,
And, by your mien and bearing knew your names;
And they could hear 'his' ghostly song who trod
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a loa... | Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot,
Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot,
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames, | And, by your mien and bearing knew your names;
And they could hear 'his' ghostly song who trod
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load,
While he struck his desolate harp without hopes or aims.
Vanished ye are, but subject to recall;
Why keep 'we' else the instincts whose dread law
Ruled here of yore, till what men... | sonnet |
Charles Sangster | The Poet's Recompense. | His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice
From fairer vales than those of Araby,
Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice
Discriminating ear of Deity
Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume.
Man cannot know what starry lights illume
The soaring spirit of his brother man!
He judges harshly with his min... | His heart's a burning censer, filled with spice
From fairer vales than those of Araby,
Breathing such prayers to heaven, that the nice
Discriminating ear of Deity | Can cull sweet praises from the rare perfume.
Man cannot know what starry lights illume
The soaring spirit of his brother man!
He judges harshly with his mind's eyes closed;
His loftiest understanding cannot scan
The heights where Poet-souls have oft reposed;
He cannot feel the chastened influence
Divine, that lights t... | sonnet |
Oliver Herford | Cerberus | Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads... | Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate. | Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads must win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The last p... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | To My Quick Ear The Leaves Conferred; | To my quick ear the leaves conferred;
The bushes they were bells;
I could not find a privacy
From Nature's sentinels.
In cave if I presumed to hide,
The walls began to tell;
Creation seemed a mighty crack
To make me visible. | To my quick ear the leaves conferred;
The bushes they were bells; | I could not find a privacy
From Nature's sentinels.
In cave if I presumed to hide,
The walls began to tell;
Creation seemed a mighty crack
To make me visible. | octave |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | It Is Not Always May | No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
- Spanish Proverb
The sun is bright,--the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing.
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.
So blue you winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clo... | No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
- Spanish Proverb
The sun is bright,--the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing.
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.
So blue you winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky, | Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new;--the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;--
There are no birds in last year's nest!
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!
And lear... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Three Elements | They come as couriers of Heaven: their feet
Sonorous-sandalled with majestic awe;
In raiment of swift foam and wind and heat,
Blowing the trumpets of God's wrath and law. | They come as couriers of Heaven: their feet | Sonorous-sandalled with majestic awe;
In raiment of swift foam and wind and heat,
Blowing the trumpets of God's wrath and law. | quatrain |
Edward Lear | Book Of Nonsense Limerick 24. | There was an Old Person of Buda,
Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder;
Till at last, with a hammer,
They silenced his clamour,
By smashing that Person of Buda | There was an Old Person of Buda, | Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder;
Till at last, with a hammer,
They silenced his clamour,
By smashing that Person of Buda | free_verse |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | A Last Look - Sonnets | Sick of self-love, Malvolio, like an owl
That hoots the sun rerisen where starlight sank,
With German garters crossed athwart thy frank
Stout Scottish legs, men watched thee snarl and scowl,
And boys responsive with reverberate howl
Shrilled, hearing how to thee the springtime stank
And as thine own soul all the world ... | Sick of self-love, Malvolio, like an owl
That hoots the sun rerisen where starlight sank,
With German garters crossed athwart thy frank
Stout Scottish legs, men watched thee snarl and scowl, | And boys responsive with reverberate howl
Shrilled, hearing how to thee the springtime stank
And as thine own soul all the world smelt rank
And as thine own thoughts Liberty seemed foul.
Now, for all ill thoughts nursed and ill words given
Not all condemned, not utterly forgiven,
Son of the storm and darkness, pass in ... | sonnet |
James McIntyre | Dick And Edward. | The Thurso baker Robert Dick[E]
Armed with his hammer and his pick,
Dame nature's secrets did reveal,
Which she for ages did conceal.
In Banff has genius found regard
In the person of an Edward,[F]
Who now does rank among the first
In the world as naturalist.
| The Thurso baker Robert Dick[E]
Armed with his hammer and his pick, | Dame nature's secrets did reveal,
Which she for ages did conceal.
In Banff has genius found regard
In the person of an Edward,[F]
Who now does rank among the first
In the world as naturalist. | octave |
John Clare | Signs of Winter | The cat runs races with her tail. The dog
Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.
The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,
Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack.
Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow
Unceremonious visit pays and croaks,
Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl
Bobs hasty out-... | The cat runs races with her tail. The dog
Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.
The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,
Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack. | Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow
Unceremonious visit pays and croaks,
Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl
Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon,
As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild
And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel
A circle round the village and soon, tired,
Plunge in the pond again. The... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To Carnations: A Song | Stay while ye will, or go,
And leave no scent behind ye:
Yet trust me, I shall know
The place where I may find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek,
(Whose livery ye wear)
Play ye at hide or seek,
I'm sure to find ye there. | Stay while ye will, or go,
And leave no scent behind ye: | Yet trust me, I shall know
The place where I may find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek,
(Whose livery ye wear)
Play ye at hide or seek,
I'm sure to find ye there. | octave |
Walter Savage Landor | Verses Why Burnt | How many verses have I thrown
Into the fire because the one
Peculiar word, the wanted most,
Was irrecoverably lost! | How many verses have I thrown | Into the fire because the one
Peculiar word, the wanted most,
Was irrecoverably lost! | quatrain |
Kate Seymour Maclean | Thanksgiving. | The Autumn hills are golden at the top,
And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme;
The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop
One after one into the lap of time.
Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse,
And forest boughs a fading glory wear;
No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops,
Silence and peace are brooding ev... | The Autumn hills are golden at the top,
And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme;
The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop
One after one into the lap of time.
Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse,
And forest boughs a fading glory wear;
No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops,
Silence and peace are brooding ev... | And nature in the sunset musing stands,
Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun,
Looking abroad o'er yellow harvest lands:
O'er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines
With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out
Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines
Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy's shout;
Where th... | free_verse |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): John Marston | The bitterness of death and bitterer scorn
Breathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thou
Wast fain to gather for thy bended brow
A chaplet by no gentler forehead worn.
Grief deep as hell, wrath hardly to be borne,
Ploughed up thy soul till round the furrowing plough
The strange black soil foamed, as a black bea... | The bitterness of death and bitterer scorn
Breathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thou
Wast fain to gather for thy bended brow
A chaplet by no gentler forehead worn. | Grief deep as hell, wrath hardly to be borne,
Ploughed up thy soul till round the furrowing plough
The strange black soil foamed, as a black beaked prow
Bids night-black waves foam where its track has torn.
Too faint the phrase for thee that only saith
Scorn bitterer than the bitterness of death
Pervades the sullen spl... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DCXL. Relics. | Peg, peg, with a wooden leg,
Her father was a miller:
He tossed the dumpling at her head,
And said he could not kill her. | Peg, peg, with a wooden leg, | Her father was a miller:
He tossed the dumpling at her head,
And said he could not kill her. | quatrain |
Sara Teasdale | Come | Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
Come with arms outstretched to take me,
Come with lips pursed up to cling.
Come, for life is a frail moth flying,
Caught in the web of the years that pass,
And soon we two, so warm and eager,
Will be as the gray stones in the grass.
| Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Floats in the pearly dusk of spring, | Come with arms outstretched to take me,
Come with lips pursed up to cling.
Come, for life is a frail moth flying,
Caught in the web of the years that pass,
And soon we two, so warm and eager,
Will be as the gray stones in the grass. | octave |
John Charles McNeill | Tommy Smith | When summer's languor drugs my veins
And fills with sleep the droning times,
Like sluggish dreams among my brains,
There runs the drollest sort of rhymes,
Idle as clouds that stray through heaven
And vague as if they were a myth,
But in these rhymes is always given
A health for old Bluebritches Smith.
Among my thoughts... | When summer's languor drugs my veins
And fills with sleep the droning times,
Like sluggish dreams among my brains,
There runs the drollest sort of rhymes,
Idle as clouds that stray through heaven
And vague as if they were a myth,
But in these rhymes is always given
A health for old Bluebritches Smith. | Among my thoughts of what is good
In olden times and distant lands,
Is that do-nothing neighborhood
Where the old cider-hogshead stands
To welcome with its brimming gourd
The canny crowd of kin and kith
Who meet about the bibulous board
Of old Bluebritches Tommy Smith.
In years to come, when stealthy change
Hath stolen... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Boy Next Door | I.
There's a boy who lives next door;
And this boy is just as bad
As a boy can be; and poor!
He's so poor it makes me sad
When I see him. Out at knee;
And no shoes; and, more than that,
Hardly any shirt or hat.
He's as poor as Poverty.
II.
But I like him; yes, I do.
He can play 'most any game,
And tell fairy stories, t... | I.
There's a boy who lives next door;
And this boy is just as bad
As a boy can be; and poor!
He's so poor it makes me sad
When I see him. Out at knee;
And no shoes; and, more than that,
Hardly any shirt or hat.
He's as poor as Poverty.
II.
But I like him; yes, I do.
He can play 'most any game,
And tell fairy stories, t... | IV.
Well, the bumblebee would sing
All day long; and all the night
Sang the old frog; till the thing,
So folks said, was done in spite,
Just to keep the flowers awake:
One a rose, a brier-rose;
And the other, one of those
Lilies that grow in a lake.
V.
All day long the bee would prod
At the rose and buzz and keep
Shaki... | free_verse |
Robert William Service | Priscilla | Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there -
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that's all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.
"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
B... | Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there -
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that's all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.
"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
B... | Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night;
A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right,
Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight,
Eyes that glare through the dark.
"Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day;
Hospital's only a league away,
And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay,
So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!"
... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Stars | These the bright symbols of man's hope and fame,
In which he reads his blessing or his curse
Are syllables with which God speaks his name
In the vast utterance of the universe. | These the bright symbols of man's hope and fame, | In which he reads his blessing or his curse
Are syllables with which God speaks his name
In the vast utterance of the universe. | quatrain |
James McIntyre | Her Lover's Step. | Step, step, step, 'tis her lover's walk,
She knows his step as well's his talk;
He is the favorite of her choice,
So his step's familiar as his voice.
Step, step, step, she now is wed,
And it is now her husband's tread;
His homeward step it cheers her life,
For she is a kind faithful wife.
But he the husband and yet lo... | Step, step, step, 'tis her lover's walk,
She knows his step as well's his talk;
He is the favorite of her choice,
So his step's familiar as his voice.
Step, step, step, she now is wed,
And it is now her husband's tread;
His homeward step it cheers her life,
For she is a kind faithful wife.
But he the husband and yet lo... | His steps at last do cease forever;
And she doth soon hear the tread
Of men who do bear out the dead.
Her heart it now doth throb with pain,
Though she knows sorrow is but vain;
For him she never can recall,
And no more hear his footsteps fall.
But still she hopes he yet will come
And visit her in their old home;
But t... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | The Girl That Lost Things | There was a girl that lost things--
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed--why, most things,
As if they had been sand!
She said, "But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!"
That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But sh... | There was a girl that lost things--
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed--why, most things,
As if they had been sand!
She said, "But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!"
That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But sh... | But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said--not much about it.
But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!
And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple--
She was so thin and weak!
And then she lost he... | free_verse |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Power | His tongue was framed to music,
And his hand was armed with skill;
His face was the mould of beauty,
And his heart the throne of will. | His tongue was framed to music, | And his hand was armed with skill;
His face was the mould of beauty,
And his heart the throne of will. | quatrain |
W. M. MacKeracher | H. M. S. "Dreadnought." | Titanic craft of many thousand tons,
A smaller Britain free to come and go,
Relying on thy ten terrific guns
To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe;
Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel,
Equipped with all the engin'ry of death,
Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel,
Annihilation latent in thy breath.
"Drea... | Titanic craft of many thousand tons,
A smaller Britain free to come and go,
Relying on thy ten terrific guns
To daunt afar the most presumptuous foe; | Thick-panoplied with plates of hardened steel,
Equipped with all the engin'ry of death,
Unrivalled swiftness in thy massive keel,
Annihilation latent in thy breath.
"Dreadnought" thy name. And yet, for all thy size
And strength, the ocean might engulf thy prow,
Or the swift red torpedo of the skies,
The lightning, blas... | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | To A Picture Of Eleonora Duse With The Greek Fire, In "Francesca da Rimini" | Francesca's life that was a limpid flame
Agleam against the shimmer of a sword,
Which falling, quenched the flame in blood outpoured
To free the house of Rimino from shame,
Francesca's death that blazed aloft her name
In guilty fadeless glory, hurling toward
The windy darkness where the tempest roared,
Her spirit burde... | Francesca's life that was a limpid flame
Agleam against the shimmer of a sword,
Which falling, quenched the flame in blood outpoured
To free the house of Rimino from shame, | Francesca's death that blazed aloft her name
In guilty fadeless glory, hurling toward
The windy darkness where the tempest roared,
Her spirit burdened by the weight of blame,
Francesca's life and death are mirrored here
Forever, on the face of her who stands
Illumined and intent beside the blaze,
Grown one with it, and... | sonnet |
H. P. Nichols | Anger. | "When a child is cross and angry,
Never must her voice be heard;
Only to herself most softly
May she say this simple word,
"Lead us not into temptation;"
That will angry thoughts remove,
Make her calm and still and gentle,
With a spirit full of love. | "When a child is cross and angry,
Never must her voice be heard; | Only to herself most softly
May she say this simple word,
"Lead us not into temptation;"
That will angry thoughts remove,
Make her calm and still and gentle,
With a spirit full of love. | octave |
Alfred Noyes | Republic And Motherland | (1912)
(Written after entering New York Harbor at Daybreak)
Up the vast harbor with the morning sun
The ship swept in from sea;
Gigantic towers arose, the night was done,
And--there stood Liberty.
Silent, the great torch lifted in one hand,
The dawn in her proud eyes,
Silent, for all the shouts that vex her land,
Silen... | (1912)
(Written after entering New York Harbor at Daybreak)
Up the vast harbor with the morning sun
The ship swept in from sea;
Gigantic towers arose, the night was done,
And--there stood Liberty.
Silent, the great torch lifted in one hand,
The dawn in her proud eyes,
Silent, for all the shouts that vex her land,
Silen... | Saxon and Norman in one wedded soul
Shook out one flag like fire;
But westward, westward, moved the gleaming goal,
Westward, the vast desire.
Westward and ever westward ran the call,
They followed the pilgrim sun,
Seeking that land which should enfold them all,
And weld all hearts in one.
Here on this mightier continen... | free_verse |
James Whitcomb Riley | My Mary | My Mary, O my Mary!
The simmer-skies are blue;
The dawnin' brings the dazzle,
An' the gloamin' brings the dew, -
The mirk o' nicht the glory
O' the moon, an' kindles, too,
The stars that shift aboon the lift. -
But nae thing brings me you!
Where is it, O my Mary,
Ye are biding a' the while?
I ha' wended by your window ... | My Mary, O my Mary!
The simmer-skies are blue;
The dawnin' brings the dazzle,
An' the gloamin' brings the dew, -
The mirk o' nicht the glory
O' the moon, an' kindles, too,
The stars that shift aboon the lift. -
But nae thing brings me you!
Where is it, O my Mary,
Ye are biding a' the while?
I ha' wended by your window ... | The simmer-time when bonny bloomed
The auld trysting-tree, -
How there I carved the name for you,
An' you the name for me;
An' the gloamin' kenned it only
When we kissed sae tenderly.
Speek ance to me, my Mary! -
But whisper in my ear
As light as ony sleeper's breath,
An' a' my soul will hear;
My heart shall stap its b... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | Rondel | Heart, thou must learn to do without--
That is the riches of the poor,
Their liberty is to endure;
Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about,
And carol loud and carol stout;
Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer;
Thou too must learn to do without,
Must earn the riches of the poor!
Why should'st thou only wear no clout?
Thou... | Heart, thou must learn to do without--
That is the riches of the poor,
Their liberty is to endure;
Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about, | And carol loud and carol stout;
Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer;
Thou too must learn to do without,
Must earn the riches of the poor!
Why should'st thou only wear no clout?
Thou only walk in love-robes pure?
Why should thy step alone be sure?
Thou only free of fortune's flout?
Nay, nay! but learn to go without,
A... | sonnet |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: 'Is It That In Some Brighter Sphere'. | Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present's dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart? | Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here? | Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present's dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart? | octave |
William Cowper | To The Spanish Admiral Count Gravina, On His Translating The Author's Song On A Rose Into Italian Verse. | My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castilian streams by you,
Will never fade again. | My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, | And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castilian streams by you,
Will never fade again. | quatrain |
John Charles McNeill | Away Down Home | 'T will not be long before they hear
The bullbat on the hill,
And in the valley through the dusk
The pastoral whippoorwill.
A few more friendly suns will call
The bluets through the loam
And star the lanes with buttercups
Away down home.
"Knee-deep!" from reedy places
Will sing the river frogs.
The terrapins will sun t... | 'T will not be long before they hear
The bullbat on the hill,
And in the valley through the dusk
The pastoral whippoorwill.
A few more friendly suns will call
The bluets through the loam
And star the lanes with buttercups
Away down home.
"Knee-deep!" from reedy places
Will sing the river frogs.
The terrapins will sun t... | A trail of drifting foam
Along the shady currents
Away down home.
The mocking-bird will feel again
The glory of his wings,
And wanton through the balmy air
And sunshine while he sings,
With a new cadence in his call,
The glint-wing'd crow will roam
From field to newly-furrowed field
Away down home.
When dogwood blossom... | free_verse |
Unknown | Spinsters | Here's to the Bachelor, so lonely and gay,
For it's not his fault, he was born that way;
And here's to the Spinster, so lonely and good;
For it's not her fault, she hath done what she could. | Here's to the Bachelor, so lonely and gay, | For it's not his fault, he was born that way;
And here's to the Spinster, so lonely and good;
For it's not her fault, she hath done what she could. | quatrain |
Archibald Lampman | The Poets. | Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell,
Changers with every hour from dawn till even,
Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven,
And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell,
Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well,
But most draw back, and know not what to say,
Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs b... | Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell,
Changers with every hour from dawn till even,
Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven,
And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell, | Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well,
But most draw back, and know not what to say,
Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray,
Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell.
Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth,
Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man,
The whole world's tangle gathered in one s... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | The Shoe-Tying. | Anthea bade me tie her shoe;
I did; and kissed the instep too:
And would have kissed unto her knee,
Had not her blush rebuked me. | Anthea bade me tie her shoe; | I did; and kissed the instep too:
And would have kissed unto her knee,
Had not her blush rebuked me. | quatrain |
Margaret Steele Anderson | The Mother. | Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine
And in thy house he shall grow up.
Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
Of trembling, as if child of mine.
But ah, forgive me!, is he warm?
And fed? Or does he miss my breast?
Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest.
And never cry, in Mary's arm? | Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine
And in thy house he shall grow up. | Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
Of trembling, as if child of mine.
But ah, forgive me!, is he warm?
And fed? Or does he miss my breast?
Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest.
And never cry, in Mary's arm? | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - X - Obligations Of Civil To Religious Liberty | Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled!
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred,
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to... | Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled!
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet; | But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred,
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won... | sonnet |
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper | He "Had Not Where To Lay His Head." | The conies had their hiding-place,
The wily fox with stealthy tread
A covert found, but Christ, the Lord,
Had not a place to lay his head.
The eagle had an eyrie home,
The blithesome bird its quiet rest,
But not the humblest spot on earth
Was by the Son of God possessed.
Princes and kings had palaces,
With grandeur cou... | The conies had their hiding-place,
The wily fox with stealthy tread
A covert found, but Christ, the Lord,
Had not a place to lay his head.
The eagle had an eyrie home,
The blithesome bird its quiet rest,
But not the humblest spot on earth
Was by the Son of God possessed. | Princes and kings had palaces,
With grandeur could adorn each tomb,
For Him who came with love and life,
They had no home, they gave no room.
The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy
Through nerves unstrung and palsied frame,
The feet that travelled for our need,
Were nailed unto the cross of shame.
How dare I murmur ... | free_verse |
Robert Southey | Sonnet VII. To The Evening Rainbow. | Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile
Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile,
That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:
But pleasant is it ... | Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day, | Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile
Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile,
That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain:
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that Piety bestows
On the good man's... | sonnet |
Walter Savage Landor | On Himself | I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art;
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. | I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; | Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art;
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. | quatrain |
John Clare | Song | I peeled bits of straws and I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do,
And I switched at the flies as I sat all alone
Till my flesh, blood, and marrow was turned to dry bone.
My illness was love, though I knew not the smart,
But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart.
Crowded places, I shunned ... | I peeled bits of straws and I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do,
And I switched at the flies as I sat all alone
Till my flesh, blood, and marrow was turned to dry bone.
My illness was love, though I knew not the smart,
But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart.
Crowded places, I shunned ... | Where the flower in green darkness buds, blossoms, and fades,
Unseen of all shepherds and flower-loving maids--
The hermit bees find them but once and away.
There I'll bury alive and in silence decay.
I looked on the eyes of fair woman too long,
Till silence and shame stole the use of my tongue:
When I tried to speak t... | free_verse |
Sara Teasdale | Dream Song | I plucked a snow-drop in the spring,
And in my hand too closely pressed;
The warmth had hurt the tender thing,
I grieved to see it withering.
I gave my love a poppy red,
And laid it on her snow-cold breast;
But poppies need a warmer bed,
We wept to find the flower was dead. | I plucked a snow-drop in the spring,
And in my hand too closely pressed; | The warmth had hurt the tender thing,
I grieved to see it withering.
I gave my love a poppy red,
And laid it on her snow-cold breast;
But poppies need a warmer bed,
We wept to find the flower was dead. | octave |
Oliver Wendell Holmes | To John Greenleaf Whittier On His Eightieth Birthday | Friend, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear
Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek
Burned in the flush of manhood's manliest year,
Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak
Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near!
Close on thy footsteps 'mid the landscape drear
I stretch my hand thine answering gr... | Friend, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear
Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek
Burned in the flush of manhood's manliest year,
Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak | Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near!
Close on thy footsteps 'mid the landscape drear
I stretch my hand thine answering grasp to seek,
Warm with the love no rippling rhymes can speak!
Look backward! From thy lofty height survey
Thy years of toil, of peaceful victories won,
Of dreams made real, largest h... | sonnet |
William Butler Yeats | A Poet To His Beloved | I Bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme. | I Bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams, | White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme. | octave |
Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Sonnet: To the River Otter | Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
B... | Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, | Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence... | sonnet |
James McIntyre | Indian Mutiny. | British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn,
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.
But the British Lion he quick o'erthrew,
Both the high and the low Hindoo,
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws. | British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn, | And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.
But the British Lion he quick o'erthrew,
Both the high and the low Hindoo,
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws. | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CXXXI. Songs. | Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
And let's drink tea.
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
They're all gone away. | Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on, | Polly put the kettle on,
And let's drink tea.
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
They're all gone away. | octave |
Vachel Lindsay | The Empty Boats | Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas?
One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze,
Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass:
There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass.
Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride
And climb the glor... | Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas?
One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze, | Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass:
There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass.
Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride
And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven's silent tide
In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate -
O empty boats, we a... | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XX - Monastic Voluptuousness | Yet more, round many a Convent's blazing fire
Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun;
There Venus sits disguised like a Nun,
While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a Friar,
Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher
Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run
Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won
An instant kiss ... | Yet more, round many a Convent's blazing fire
Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun;
There Venus sits disguised like a Nun,
While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a Friar, | Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher
Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run
Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won
An instant kiss of masterful desire
To stay the precious waste. Through every brain
The domination of the sprightly juice
Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy dear,
Till the arched roof, ... | sonnet |
Henry Lawson | A Song Of Brave Men | Man, is the Sea your master? Sea, and is man your slave?,
This is the song of brave men who never know they are brave:
Ceaselessly watching to save you, stranger from foreign lands,
Soundly asleep in your state room, full sail for the Goodwin Sands!
Life is a dream, they tell us, but life seems very real,
When the life... | Man, is the Sea your master? Sea, and is man your slave?,
This is the song of brave men who never know they are brave:
Ceaselessly watching to save you, stranger from foreign lands,
Soundly asleep in your state room, full sail for the Goodwin Sands!
Life is a dream, they tell us, but life seems very real,
When the life... | And across the life of a nation, as across the track of a ship,
Lies the hidden rock, or the iceberg, within the horizon dip.
And wise men know them, and warn us, with lightship, or voice, or pen;
But we strike, and the fool survivors sail on to strike again.)
But this is a song of brave men, wherever is aught to save,... | free_verse |
Sara Teasdale | While I May | Wind and hail and veering rain,
Driven mist that veils the day,
Soul's distress and body's pain,
I would bear you while I may.
I would love you if I might,
For so soon my life will be
Buried in a lasting night,
Even pain denied to me. | Wind and hail and veering rain,
Driven mist that veils the day, | Soul's distress and body's pain,
I would bear you while I may.
I would love you if I might,
For so soon my life will be
Buried in a lasting night,
Even pain denied to me. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCXXII. Jingles. | Hey diddle, dinketty, poppety, pet,
The merchants of London they wear scarlet;
Silk in the collar, and gold in the hem,
So merrily march the merchantmen. | Hey diddle, dinketty, poppety, pet, | The merchants of London they wear scarlet;
Silk in the collar, and gold in the hem,
So merrily march the merchantmen. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | To M. Henry Lawes, The Excellent Composer Of His Lyrics. | Touch but thy lyre, my Harry, and I hear
From thee some raptures of the rare Gotiere;
Then if thy voice commingle with the string,
I hear in thee rare Laniere to sing;
Or curious Wilson: tell me, canst thou be
Less than Apollo, that usurp'st such three?
Three, unto whom the whole world give applause;
Yet their three pr... | Touch but thy lyre, my Harry, and I hear
From thee some raptures of the rare Gotiere; | Then if thy voice commingle with the string,
I hear in thee rare Laniere to sing;
Or curious Wilson: tell me, canst thou be
Less than Apollo, that usurp'st such three?
Three, unto whom the whole world give applause;
Yet their three praises praise but one; that's Lawes. | octave |
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