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Paul Thomas Gilbert | Triolet | "I love you, my lord!"
Was all that she said,
What a dissonant chord,
"I love you, my lord!"
Ah! how I abhorred
That sarcastic maid!
"I love you? My Lord!"
Was all that she said. | "I love you, my lord!"
Was all that she said, | What a dissonant chord,
"I love you, my lord!"
Ah! how I abhorred
That sarcastic maid!
"I love you? My Lord!"
Was all that she said. | octave |
Thomas Hardy | She - At His Funeral | They bear him to his resting-place -
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire! | They bear him to his resting-place -
In slow procession sweeping by; | I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire! | octave |
Jean de La Fontaine | Sister Jane | WHEN Sister Jane, who had produced a child,
In prayer and penance all her hours beguiled
Her sister-nuns around the lattice pressed;
On which the abbess thus her flock addressed:
Live like our sister Jane, and bid adieu
To worldly cares: - have better things in view.
YES, they replied, we sage like her shall be,
When w... | WHEN Sister Jane, who had produced a child,
In prayer and penance all her hours beguiled | Her sister-nuns around the lattice pressed;
On which the abbess thus her flock addressed:
Live like our sister Jane, and bid adieu
To worldly cares: - have better things in view.
YES, they replied, we sage like her shall be,
When we with love have equally been free. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXVI. Natural History. | The cock doth crow,
To let you know,
If you be wise,
'Tis time to rise. | The cock doth crow, | To let you know,
If you be wise,
'Tis time to rise. | quatrain |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Chaucer | An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound.
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth... | An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound.
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark, | Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I h... | sonnet |
Vachel Lindsay | Titian | Would that such hills and cities round us sang,
Such vistas of the actual earth and man
As kindled Titian when his life began;
Would that this latter Greek could put his gold,
Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold
Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun,
Become our every-day, and we aspire
To colors fairer far, a... | Would that such hills and cities round us sang,
Such vistas of the actual earth and man | As kindled Titian when his life began;
Would that this latter Greek could put his gold,
Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold
Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun,
Become our every-day, and we aspire
To colors fairer far, and glories higher. | octave |
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton) | Tom Collins | Who never drinks and never bets,
But loves his wife and pays his debts
And feels content with what he gets?
Tom Collins.
Who has the utmost confidence
That all the banks now in suspense
Will meet their paper three years hence?
Tom Collins.
Who reads the Herald leaders through,
And takes the Evening News for true,
And t... | Who never drinks and never bets,
But loves his wife and pays his debts
And feels content with what he gets?
Tom Collins.
Who has the utmost confidence | That all the banks now in suspense
Will meet their paper three years hence?
Tom Collins.
Who reads the Herald leaders through,
And takes the Evening News for true,
And thought the Echo's jokes were new?
Tom Collins.
Who is the patriot renowned
So very opportunely found
To fork up Dibbs's thousand pound?
Tom Collins. | free_verse |
Frank Sidgwick | A Gest Of Robyn Hode - The Fourth Fytte (205-280) | Argument.--Robin Hood will not dine until he has 'his pay,' and he therefore sends Little John with Much and Scarlok to wait for an 'unketh gest.' They capture a monk of St. Mary Abbey, and Robin Hood makes him disgorge eight hundred pounds. The monk, we are told, was on his way to London to take proceedings against th... | Argument.--Robin Hood will not dine until he has 'his pay,' and he therefore sends Little John with Much and Scarlok to wait for an 'unketh gest.' They capture a monk of St. Mary Abbey, and Robin Hood makes him disgorge eight hundred pounds. The monk, we are told, was on his way to London to take proceedings against th... | Came pryckynge on a rowe.
230.
And everych of them a good mantell
Of scarlet and of raye;
All they came to good Robyn,
To wyte what he wolde say.
231.
They made the monke to wasshe and wype,
And syt at his denere.
Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan
They served him both in fere.
232.
'Do gladly, monke,' sayd Robyn.
'Gramercy, ... | free_verse |
Siegfried Loraine Sassoon | When I'm Among A Blaze Of Lights ... | When I'm among a blaze of lights,
With tawdry music and cigars
And women dawdling through delights,
And officers at cocktail bars, -
Sometimes I think of garden nights
And elm trees nodding at the stars.
I dream of a small firelit room
With yellow candles burning straight,
And glowing pictures in the gloom,
And kindly... | When I'm among a blaze of lights,
With tawdry music and cigars
And women dawdling through delights,
And officers at cocktail bars, - | Sometimes I think of garden nights
And elm trees nodding at the stars.
I dream of a small firelit room
With yellow candles burning straight,
And glowing pictures in the gloom,
And kindly books that hold me late.
Of things like these I love to think
When I can never be alone:
Then some one says, "Another drink?" -
And ... | sonnet |
Robert Burns | Lines On Stirling. | Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most. | Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; | But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Upon Rush. | Rush saves his shoes in wet and snowy weather;
And fears in summer to wear out the leather;
This is strong thrift that wary Rush doth use
Summer and winter still to save his shoes. | Rush saves his shoes in wet and snowy weather; | And fears in summer to wear out the leather;
This is strong thrift that wary Rush doth use
Summer and winter still to save his shoes. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | Despondency. | Not all the bravery that day puts on
Of gold and azure, ardent or austere,
Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grown more dear
Than all the joy that heavenly hope may don.
Far up the skies the rumor of the dawn
May run, and eve like some wild torch appear;
These shall not change the darkness, gathered here,
Of thought, that ... | Not all the bravery that day puts on
Of gold and azure, ardent or austere,
Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grown more dear
Than all the joy that heavenly hope may don. | Far up the skies the rumor of the dawn
May run, and eve like some wild torch appear;
These shall not change the darkness, gathered here,
Of thought, that rusts like an old sword undrawn.
Oh, for a place deep-sunken from the sun!
A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss!
Where Sleep and Silence, breast to married bre... | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | I Thought Of You | I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone
I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone.
Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
The cold and sparkling silver of the sea,
We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
Before you ... | I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone | I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone.
Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me
The cold and sparkling silver of the sea,
We two will pass through death and ages lengthen
Before you hear that sound again with me. | octave |
Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce) | Queen Elizabeth Speaks | My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold,
My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold.
So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,
Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod. | My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, | My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold.
So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,
Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | Unqualified | Not his the part to win the goal,
The flaming goal that flies before,
Into whose course the apples roll
Of self that stay his feet the more.
Beyond himself he shall not win
Whose flesh is as a driven dust,
That his own soul must wander in,
Seeing no farther than his lust.
| Not his the part to win the goal,
The flaming goal that flies before, | Into whose course the apples roll
Of self that stay his feet the more.
Beyond himself he shall not win
Whose flesh is as a driven dust,
That his own soul must wander in,
Seeing no farther than his lust. | octave |
Edgar Allan Poe | To The River | Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty, the unhidden heart,
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks,
Which glistens then, and trembles,
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshiper resembles;
For i... | Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty, the unhidden heart, | The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks,
Which glistens then, and trembles,
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshiper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies,
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes. | sonnet |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Love's Philosophy. | 1.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? -
2.
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-... | 1.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single; | All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? -
2.
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If ... | free_verse |
Louisa May Alcott | To My Lady | "There are no flowers in the fields,
No green leaves on the tree,
No columbines, no violets,
No sweet anemone.
So I have gathered from my pots
All that I have to fill
The basket that I hang to-night,
With heaps of love from Jill." | "There are no flowers in the fields,
No green leaves on the tree, | No columbines, no violets,
No sweet anemone.
So I have gathered from my pots
All that I have to fill
The basket that I hang to-night,
With heaps of love from Jill." | octave |
Helen Leah Reed | The Titanic | Out of the misty North
A stealthy foeman stole;
Far from the haunted Pole
On the wide sea went he forth,
And he met a giant ship
As he scoured the sea for toll
It cannot reach its goal
Crushed in his icy grip.
"Of every four just three"
This was his deadly dole.
Unseen he called the roll
Ah! a cold grave is the Sea.
Ye... | Out of the misty North
A stealthy foeman stole;
Far from the haunted Pole
On the wide sea went he forth,
And he met a giant ship | As he scoured the sea for toll
It cannot reach its goal
Crushed in his icy grip.
"Of every four just three"
This was his deadly dole.
Unseen he called the roll
Ah! a cold grave is the Sea.
Yet the Sea is not the end,
And Life is not the whole.
Over each heroic soul
Shall Eternity extend. | free_verse |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized. | The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover --
Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey... | The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy | Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover --
Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety. | sonnet |
Alfred Noyes | Five Criticisms - I | I.
(On many recent novels by the conventional unconventionalists.)
Old Pantaloon, lean-witted, dour and rich,
After grim years of soul-destroying greed,
Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch
"Too young" to know that gold was not her need.
Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,
With well-lined purse, to teach ... | I.
(On many recent novels by the conventional unconventionalists.)
Old Pantaloon, lean-witted, dour and rich,
After grim years of soul-destroying greed,
Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch | "Too young" to know that gold was not her need.
Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,
With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wife
That the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform
(Confused with sex). This wrecks the old fool's life.
O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever,
Quick to break hearts a... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To His Mistress, Objecting To Him Neither Toying Or Talking | You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes; -
By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever fo... | You say I love not, 'cause I do not play
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
You blame me, too, because I can't devise
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes; - | By Love's religion, I must here confess it,
The most I love, when I the least express it.
Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever found
To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
That chiding streams betray small depth below.
So when love speechless is, she doth express
A... | sonnet |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Tefkir Name. - Firdusi (Speaks). | Oh world, with what baseness and guilt thou art rife!
Thou nurtures, trainest, and illest the while.
He only whom Allah doth bless with his smile
Is train'd and is nurtured with riches and life. | Oh world, with what baseness and guilt thou art rife! | Thou nurtures, trainest, and illest the while.
He only whom Allah doth bless with his smile
Is train'd and is nurtured with riches and life. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Afraid? Of Whom Am I Afraid? | Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father's lodge
As much abasheth me.
Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.
Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown! | Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father's lodge
As much abasheth me. | Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.
Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown! | free_verse |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | A New Century | An age too great for thought of ours to scan,
A wave upon the sleepless sea of time
That sinks and sleeps for ever, ere the chime
Pass that salutes with blessing, not with ban,
The dark year dead, the bright year born for man,
Dies: all its days that watched man cower and climb,
Frail as the foam, and as the sun sublim... | An age too great for thought of ours to scan,
A wave upon the sleepless sea of time
That sinks and sleeps for ever, ere the chime
Pass that salutes with blessing, not with ban, | The dark year dead, the bright year born for man,
Dies: all its days that watched man cower and climb,
Frail as the foam, and as the sun sublime,
Sleep sound as they that slept ere these began.
Our mother earth, whose ages none may tell,
Puts on no change: time bids not her wax pale
Or kindle, quenched or quickened, wh... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | On Gilly-Flowers Begotten. | What was't that fell but now
From that warm kiss of ours?
Look, look! by love I vow
They were two gilly-flowers.
Let's kiss and kiss again,
For if so be our closes
Make gilly-flowers, then
I'm sure they'll fashion roses. | What was't that fell but now
From that warm kiss of ours? | Look, look! by love I vow
They were two gilly-flowers.
Let's kiss and kiss again,
For if so be our closes
Make gilly-flowers, then
I'm sure they'll fashion roses. | octave |
Hilaire Belloc | The Evenlode | I will not try to reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes,
And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
A... | I will not try to reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.
But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes, | And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.
The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
And passed into a wandering mist
Along the perfect Evenlode.
The tender Evenlode that makes
Her meadows hush to hear the sound
Of waters mingling in the brakes,
And binds my heart to Englis... | free_verse |
Michael Drayton | Sonnets: Idea XXXVI Cupid Conjured | Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me
And suffered her to glory in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee!
By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,
By thy fair mother's unavoided power,
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears,
When she was wra... | Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me
And suffered her to glory in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee! | By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,
By thy fair mother's unavoided power,
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears,
When she was wrapt to the infernal bower!
By thine own lov'd Psyche, by the fires
Spent on thine altars flaming up to heaven,
By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires,
By all the wound... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | It Does Not Matter | It does not matter very much to me
Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;
Since I know that it runs away from thee,
I give it little heed.
It does not matter if in calm or strife,
There ebb or flow for me the future's tide.
I had but one great longing in my life,
And that has been denied.
It does not matter... | It does not matter very much to me
Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;
Since I know that it runs away from thee,
I give it little heed.
It does not matter if in calm or strife,
There ebb or flow for me the future's tide. | I had but one great longing in my life,
And that has been denied.
It does not matter if I stand or fall,
Or walk with kings, or with the rank and file;
Life's loftiest aims and best ambitions all
Were centred in thy smile.
It does not matter what the world may say:
I feel no interest in its blame or praise.
I only know... | free_verse |
Jean Ingelow | Brothers, And A Sermon. | It was a village built in a green rent,
Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay
A reef of level rock runs out to sea,
And you may lie on it and look sheer down,
Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost,
And see the elastic banners of the dulse
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep
Across the laver, a... | It was a village built in a green rent,
Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay
A reef of level rock runs out to sea,
And you may lie on it and look sheer down,
Just where the "Grace of Sunderland" was lost,
And see the elastic banners of the dulse
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep
Across the laver, a... | And the sun went into the west, and down
Upon the water stooped an orange cloud,
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad
To wear its colors; and the sultry air
Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships
With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass:
It took moreover music, for across
The heather belt and over p... | free_verse |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Fragments On Nature And Life - The Earth | Our eyeless bark sails free
Though with boom and spar
Andes, Alp or Himmalee,
Strikes never moon or star. | Our eyeless bark sails free | Though with boom and spar
Andes, Alp or Himmalee,
Strikes never moon or star. | quatrain |
Gilbert Keith Chesterton | The Outlaw | Priest, is any song-bird stricken?
Is one leaf less on the tree?
Is this wine less red and royal
That the hangman waits for me?
He upon your cross that hangeth,
It is writ of priestly pen,
On the night they built his gibbet,
Drank red wine among his men.
Quaff, like a brave man, as he did,
Wine and death as heaven pour... | Priest, is any song-bird stricken?
Is one leaf less on the tree?
Is this wine less red and royal
That the hangman waits for me?
He upon your cross that hangeth, | It is writ of priestly pen,
On the night they built his gibbet,
Drank red wine among his men.
Quaff, like a brave man, as he did,
Wine and death as heaven pours--
This is my fate: O ye rulers,
O ye pontiffs, what is yours?
To wait trembling, lest yon loathly
Gallows-shape whereon I die,
In strange temples yet unbuilded... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | Translations. - Milton's Italian Poems. Ii. | As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare,
Useth to go the little shepherd maid,
Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed,
Ill thriving in unwonted soil and air
Far from its native springtime's genial care;
So on my ready tongue hath Love assayed
In a strange speech to wake new flower and blade,
While I of t... | As in the twilight brown, on hillside bare,
Useth to go the little shepherd maid,
Watering some strange fair plant, poorly displayed,
Ill thriving in unwonted soil and air | Far from its native springtime's genial care;
So on my ready tongue hath Love assayed
In a strange speech to wake new flower and blade,
While I of thee, proud yet so debonair,
Sing songs whose sense is to my people lost--
Yield the fair Thames, and the fair Arno gain.
Love willed it so, and I, at others' cost,
Already ... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Groynes. Epig. | Groynes, for his fleshly burglary of late,
Stood in the holy forum candidate;
The word is Roman; but in English known:
Penance, and standing so, are both but one. | Groynes, for his fleshly burglary of late, | Stood in the holy forum candidate;
The word is Roman; but in English known:
Penance, and standing so, are both but one. | quatrain |
Robert Burns | The Day Returns. | Tune - "Seventh of November."
I.
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made th... | Tune - "Seventh of November."
I.
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. | Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine!
II.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone I live.
When that grim foe ... | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | Slumber, Oh Slumber. | "Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
Thus sung I to a maiden,
Who slept one summer's day,
And, like a flower overladen
With too much sunshine, lay.
Slumber, oh slumber, etc.
"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, ... | "Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
Thus sung I to a maiden,
Who slept one summer's day, | And, like a flower overladen
With too much sunshine, lay.
Slumber, oh slumber, etc.
"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
Thus sing I, while, awaking,
She murmurs words that seem
As if her lips were taking
Farewell of some sweet dream.
Breathe no... | sonnet |
Walt Whitman | Patroling Barnegat | Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow f... | Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, | Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the b... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Epitaph. | Step lightly on this narrow spot!
The broadest land that grows
Is not so ample as the breast
These emerald seams enclose.
Step lofty; for this name is told
As far as cannon dwell,
Or flag subsist, or fame export
Her deathless syllable. | Step lightly on this narrow spot!
The broadest land that grows | Is not so ample as the breast
These emerald seams enclose.
Step lofty; for this name is told
As far as cannon dwell,
Or flag subsist, or fame export
Her deathless syllable. | octave |
Walter Parke | His Mother-In-Law | He stood on his head by the wild seashore,
And danced on his hands a jig;
In all his emotions, as never before,
A wildly hilarious grig.
And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sailed
For a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and fever prevailed.
Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life
A... | He stood on his head by the wild seashore,
And danced on his hands a jig;
In all his emotions, as never before,
A wildly hilarious grig.
And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sailed
For a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and fever prevailed.
Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life | And even be happy yet,
Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,
And up to his collar in debt.
He had borne the old lady through thick and thin,
And she lectured him out of breath;
And now as he looked at the ship she was in
He howled for her violent death.
He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
And bumpishly up-and-do... | free_verse |
Robert Southey | Sonnet IV | 'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more
The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day
No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking... | 'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more
The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep! | Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day
No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,
Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves far from the chearful throng
Stands sad, and ga... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Guess. Epig. | Guess cuts his shoes, and limping, goes about
To have men think he's troubled with the gout;
But 'tis no gout, believe it, but hard beer,
Whose acrimonious humour bites him here. | Guess cuts his shoes, and limping, goes about | To have men think he's troubled with the gout;
But 'tis no gout, believe it, but hard beer,
Whose acrimonious humour bites him here. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Fountain Of Love | The source of laughter lies so near to tears,
And pain to rapture, that one fountain flows
From forth the two Love's; in whose deeps appears
The image of the Heaven each man knows. | The source of laughter lies so near to tears, | And pain to rapture, that one fountain flows
From forth the two Love's; in whose deeps appears
The image of the Heaven each man knows. | quatrain |
Walter Scott (Sir) | The Lay Of The Last Minstrel: Canto I | Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, welladay! their date was fled,
... | Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, welladay! their date was fled,
... | When startled burghers fled afar,
The furies of the Border war;
When the streets of high Dunedin
Saw lances gleam and falchion redden,
And heard the slogan's deadly yell,
Then the Chef of Branksome fell.
VIII
Can piety the discord heal,
Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal,
Can love o... | free_verse |
A. Hoatson | The Race. | Has anyone heard of the wonderful race
Of the frogs and the greyhounds, the rabbits and cats?
They rode it on bicycles, sixteen in all,
And the umpires were pugs, with cigars and high hats.
And the number of each kind of racer was four--
Four frogs dressed in green, four rabbits in brown,
Four greyhounds well brushed a... | Has anyone heard of the wonderful race
Of the frogs and the greyhounds, the rabbits and cats?
They rode it on bicycles, sixteen in all,
And the umpires were pugs, with cigars and high hats.
And the number of each kind of racer was four--
Four frogs dressed in green, four rabbits in brown,
Four greyhounds well brushed a... | And I think that it's true, for they never were seen
Any more by the umpires, although the cats say
They frequently meet them at night on the green.)
And now they are ready, and "Go!" cried the first
Of the four solemn pugs as he lit his cigar.
"I shall act for the rabbits; you choose from the rest,
And carefully watch... | free_verse |
George MacDonald | Come Down | Still am I haunting
Thy door with my prayers;
Still they are panting
Up thy steep stairs!
Wouldst thou not rather
Come down to my heart,
And there, O my Father,
Be what thou art? | Still am I haunting
Thy door with my prayers; | Still they are panting
Up thy steep stairs!
Wouldst thou not rather
Come down to my heart,
And there, O my Father,
Be what thou art? | octave |
Alexander Pope | Epitaph On Gay. | Well, then, poor G---- lies under ground!
So there's an end of honest Jack.
So little justice here he found,
'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back. | Well, then, poor G---- lies under ground! | So there's an end of honest Jack.
So little justice here he found,
'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back. | quatrain |
Walter Savage Landor | Soon, O Lanthe! Life Is O'er | Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er,
And sooner beauty's heavenly smile:
Grant only (and I ask no more),
Let love remain that little while. | Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er, | And sooner beauty's heavenly smile:
Grant only (and I ask no more),
Let love remain that little while. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXXXV. Natural History. [Bird boy's song.] | Eat, Birds, eat, and make no waste,
I lie here and make no haste;
If my master chance to come,
You must fly, and I must run. | Eat, Birds, eat, and make no waste, | I lie here and make no haste;
If my master chance to come,
You must fly, and I must run. | quatrain |
Friedrich Schiller | The Hostage. A Ballad. | The tyrant Dionys to seek,
Stern Moerus with his poniard crept;
The watchful guard upon him swept;
The grim king marked his changeless cheek:
"What wouldst thou with thy poniard? Speak!"
"The city from the tyrant free!"
"The death-cross shall thy guerdon be."
"I am prepared for death, nor pray,"
Replied that haughty ma... | The tyrant Dionys to seek,
Stern Moerus with his poniard crept;
The watchful guard upon him swept;
The grim king marked his changeless cheek:
"What wouldst thou with thy poniard? Speak!"
"The city from the tyrant free!"
"The death-cross shall thy guerdon be."
"I am prepared for death, nor pray,"
Replied that haughty ma... | To bear him to the wished-for land;
No boatman will Death's pilot be;
The wild stream gathers to a sea!
Sunk by the banks, awhile he weeps,
Then raised his arms to Jove, and cried,
"Stay thou, oh stay the maddening tide;
Midway behold the swift sun sweeps,
And, ere he sinks adown the deeps,
If I should fail, his beams ... | free_verse |
Jean Blewett | Madam Grundy. | Madam, they say, has lost her way.
Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her tales all with her. | Madam, they say, has lost her way. | Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her tales all with her. | quatrain |
Walter Savage Landor | To Sleep | Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down. | Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without | The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down. | quatrain |
Richard Le Gallienne | To A Poet | As one, the secret lover of a queen,
Watches her move within the people's eye,
Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,
And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;
The little room where love did 'shut them in,'
The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,
And rests his hand where on his heart doth die
A bruised... | As one, the secret lover of a queen,
Watches her move within the people's eye,
Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,
And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen; | The little room where love did 'shut them in,'
The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,
And rests his hand where on his heart doth die
A bruised daffodil of last night's sin:
So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once more
Here where a thousand eyes may read it too,
I smile your own sweet secret smile at those
Who deem ... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CLV. Songs. | 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 |
Abram Joseph Ryan | Rest | My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed --
And I desire, what I have long desired --
Rest -- only rest.
'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,
In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,
In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best;
And I have... | My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed --
And I desire, what I have long desired --
Rest -- only rest.
'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,
In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,
In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,
But God knows best; | And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer
For rest -- sweet rest.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap
The Autumn yield;
'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep
O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry,
So heart oppressed;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
For rest -- for rest.
My way... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Toad | Here is a tale to tell to rich relations:
There was a toad, a Calibanic monster,
In whose squat head ambition had ensconced her
Most bloated jewel, dear to highest stations.
He was received, though mottled as a lichen
In coat and character, because the creature
Croaked as the devil prompted him, or nature,
And said the... | Here is a tale to tell to rich relations:
There was a toad, a Calibanic monster,
In whose squat head ambition had ensconced her
Most bloated jewel, dear to highest stations. | He was received, though mottled as a lichen
In coat and character, because the creature
Croaked as the devil prompted him, or nature,
And said the right thing both in hall and kitchen.
To each he sang according to their liking,
And purred his flattery in the ear of Leisure,
Cringing attendance on the proud and wealthy.... | sonnet |
Thomas Frederick Young | To A Little Girl. | Go, little girl, your course pursue,
On life's rough ocean safely glide,
May want nor woe e'er visit you,
Nor any other ills betide.
Improve the shining hours of youth,
For soon, alas, they will be gone,
Strive hard for learning, zeal and truth,
For ev'ry soul must fight alone. | Go, little girl, your course pursue,
On life's rough ocean safely glide, | May want nor woe e'er visit you,
Nor any other ills betide.
Improve the shining hours of youth,
For soon, alas, they will be gone,
Strive hard for learning, zeal and truth,
For ev'ry soul must fight alone. | octave |
Michael Earls | The Countersign | "Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign,"
Said little Dan O'Shea,
"Though never I come from the picket's line,
But a faded suit of grey:
Yet over my death will the road be safe,
And the regiment march away."
"In a mother's name, I bless thee, lad,"
The Colonel drew him near:
"But first in the name of God," said Dan,
"A... | "Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign,"
Said little Dan O'Shea,
"Though never I come from the picket's line,
But a faded suit of grey:
Yet over my death will the road be safe,
And the regiment march away."
"In a mother's name, I bless thee, lad,"
The Colonel drew him near:
"But first in the name of God," said Dan,
"A... | Quickly he rode by valley and hill,
On to the outpost line,
Till the pickets arise by wall and mound,
And the levelled muskets shine;
"Halt!" they cried, "count three to death,
Or give us the countersign."
Lightly the lad leaped from his steed,
No fear was in his sigh,
But a mother's face and a home he loved
Under an I... | free_verse |
Thomas Bailey Aldrich | A Petition | To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold--
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently... | To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own. | Grant me this favor, Muse--all else withhold--
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news. | octave |
Thomas Hardy | A Death-Day Recalled | Beeny did not quiver,
Juliot grew not gray,
Thin Valency's river
Held its wonted way.
Bos seemed not to utter
Dimmest note of dirge,
Targan mouth a mutter
To its creamy surge.
Yet though these, unheeding,
Listless, passed the hour
Of her spirit's speeding,
She had, in her flower,
Sought and loved the places -
Much and ... | Beeny did not quiver,
Juliot grew not gray,
Thin Valency's river
Held its wonted way.
Bos seemed not to utter
Dimmest note of dirge,
Targan mouth a mutter
To its creamy surge. | Yet though these, unheeding,
Listless, passed the hour
Of her spirit's speeding,
She had, in her flower,
Sought and loved the places -
Much and often pined
For their lonely faces
When in towns confined.
Why did not Valency
In his purl deplore
One whose haunts were whence he
Drew his limpid store?
Why did Bos not thunde... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | When Severn's Sweeping Flood Had Overthrown | When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown
St. Mary's Church, the preacher then would cry:
"Thus, Christian people, God his might hath shown
That ye to him your love may testify;
Haste, and rebuild the pile." But not a stone
Resumed its place. Age after age went by,
And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety
In sec... | When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown
St. Mary's Church, the preacher then would cry:
"Thus, Christian people, God his might hath shown
That ye to him your love may testify; | Haste, and rebuild the pile." But not a stone
Resumed its place. Age after age went by,
And Heaven still lacked its due, though piety
In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan.
But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim
In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice;
Let the new Church be worthy of its aim,
That in its beaut... | sonnet |
Frank Sidgwick | Johney Scot | The Text of this popular and excellent ballad is given from the Jamieson-Brown MS. It was copied, with wilful alterations, into Scott's Abbotsford MS. called Scottish Songs. Professor Child prints sixteen variants of the ballad, nearly all from manuscripts.
The Story of the duel with the Italian is given with more deta... | The Text of this popular and excellent ballad is given from the Jamieson-Brown MS. It was copied, with wilful alterations, into Scott's Abbotsford MS. called Scottish Songs. Professor Child prints sixteen variants of the ballad, nearly all from manuscripts.
The Story of the duel with the Italian is given with more deta... | At the window looking out.
12.
'O here's a sark o' silk, lady,
Your ain han' sew'd the sleeve;
You'r bidden come to fair Scotlan',
Speer nane o' your parents' leave.
13.
'Ha, take this sark o' silk, lady,
Your ain han' sew'd the gare;
You're bidden come to good green wood,
Love Johney waits you there.'
14.
She's turn'd... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Critics. | I'll write, because I'll give
You critics means to live;
For should I not supply
The cause, th' effect would die. | I'll write, because I'll give | You critics means to live;
For should I not supply
The cause, th' effect would die. | quatrain |
George MacDonald | Of The Son Of Man | I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust
To look with jealousy on her designs;
With every passing year more fast she twines
About my heart; with her mysterious dust
Claim I a fellowship not less august
Although she works before me and combines
Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines
Spreading a leafy volume on the cru... | I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust
To look with jealousy on her designs;
With every passing year more fast she twines
About my heart; with her mysterious dust
Claim I a fellowship not less august
Although she works before me and combines
Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines
Spreading a leafy volume on the cru... | VI. "But yet the great of soul have ever been
The first to glory in all works of art;
For from the genius-form would ever dart
A light of inspiration, and a sheen
As of new comings; and ourselves have seen
Men of stern purpose to whose eyes would start
Sorrow at sight of sorrow though no heart
Did riot underneath that ... | free_verse |
Robert Southey | Sonnet IX. | Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day;
But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome.... | Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roseate ray,
And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day; | But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway.
And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight
EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight
From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night
Ye Hours of happiness! ye s... | sonnet |
Anna Akhmatova | And Pushkin's Exile Had | And Pushkin's exile had begun right here,
And Lermontov's expulsion had been "canceled."
There is the easy grasses' scent on highland.
And only once it chanced to me to see it --
Near the lake, where shades of plane-trees hover,
In that doom hour before the evening thrusts,--
The dazzling light of the desirous eyes
Of ... | And Pushkin's exile had begun right here,
And Lermontov's expulsion had been "canceled." | There is the easy grasses' scent on highland.
And only once it chanced to me to see it --
Near the lake, where shades of plane-trees hover,
In that doom hour before the evening thrusts,--
The dazzling light of the desirous eyes
Of Tamara's forever living lover. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Experiment To Me | Experiment to me
Is every one I meet.
If it contain a kernel?
The figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree,
Equally plausibly;
But meat within is requisite,
To squirrels and to me. | Experiment to me
Is every one I meet. | If it contain a kernel?
The figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree,
Equally plausibly;
But meat within is requisite,
To squirrels and to me. | octave |
Margaret Steele Anderson | Donatello. | Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes
How brood and burn the restless mysteries!
Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
That spray of antique laurel, how serene! | Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes | How brood and burn the restless mysteries!
Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
That spray of antique laurel, how serene! | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Remembrance. | Remembrance has a rear and front, --
'T is something like a house;
It has a garret also
For refuse and the mouse,
Besides, the deepest cellar
That ever mason hewed;
Look to it, by its fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued. | Remembrance has a rear and front, --
'T is something like a house; | It has a garret also
For refuse and the mouse,
Besides, the deepest cellar
That ever mason hewed;
Look to it, by its fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued. | octave |
Rudyard Kipling | James I | The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
A shifty mother's shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
Learned in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek,
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his lin... | The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
A shifty mother's shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
Learned in all things, wise in none. | Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek,
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line,
He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
And left a son who, proved they weren't! | free_verse |
Alan Seeger | Kyrenaikos | Lay me where soft Cyrene rambles down
In grove and garden to the sapphire sea;
Twine yellow roses for the drinker's crown;
Let music reach and fair heads circle me,
Watching blue ocean where the white sails steer
Fruit-laden forth or with the wares and news
Of merchant cities seek our harbors here,
Careless how Corinth... | Lay me where soft Cyrene rambles down
In grove and garden to the sapphire sea;
Twine yellow roses for the drinker's crown;
Let music reach and fair heads circle me, | Watching blue ocean where the white sails steer
Fruit-laden forth or with the wares and news
Of merchant cities seek our harbors here,
Careless how Corinth fares, how Syracuse;
But here, with love and sleep in her caress,
Warm night shall sink and utterly persuade
The gentle doctrine Aristippus bare, -
Night-winds, an... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. XLI. Literal | Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man!
So I will, master, as fast as I can:
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Put in the oven for Tommy and me. | Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man! | So I will, master, as fast as I can:
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Put in the oven for Tommy and me. | quatrain |
Rudyard Kipling | Toomai Of The Elephants | I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain,
I will remember my old strength and all my forest-affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugarcane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break,
Out to the winds 'untainted ... | I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain,
I will remember my old strength and all my forest-affairs. | I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugarcane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
I will go out until the day, until the morning break,
Out to the winds 'untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress.
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, ... | octave |
Robert Herrick | God's Presence | God's present everywhere, but most of all
Present by union hypostatical:
God, He is there, where's nothing else, schools say,
And nothing else is there where He's away.
| God's present everywhere, but most of all | Present by union hypostatical:
God, He is there, where's nothing else, schools say,
And nothing else is there where He's away. | quatrain |
John Carr (Sir) | Love And The Spring-Flower. | 'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;
But, if the chill be too severe,
Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.
Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,
Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;
But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,
'Twill drop upon its bed, and die! | 'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Just as she cools, Love warmer grows; | But, if the chill be too severe,
Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.
Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,
Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;
But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,
'Twill drop upon its bed, and die! | octave |
Rudyard Kipling | If.... | If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't... | If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't... | If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winni... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Anthea. | Come, Anthea, know thou this,
Love at no time idle is;
Let's be doing, though we play
But at push-pin half the day;
Chains of sweet bents let us make
Captive one, or both, to take:
In which bondage we will lie,
Souls transfusing thus, and die. | Come, Anthea, know thou this,
Love at no time idle is; | Let's be doing, though we play
But at push-pin half the day;
Chains of sweet bents let us make
Captive one, or both, to take:
In which bondage we will lie,
Souls transfusing thus, and die. | octave |
Robert Herrick | To Silvia. | No more, my Silvia, do I mean to pray
For those good days that ne'er will come away.
I want belief; O gentle Silvia, be
The patient saint, and send up vows for me. | No more, my Silvia, do I mean to pray | For those good days that ne'er will come away.
I want belief; O gentle Silvia, be
The patient saint, and send up vows for me. | quatrain |
Robert William Service | The Absinthe Drinkers | He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.
He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
He's staring at the passers with his customary stare.
He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng,
That current cosmopolitan meandering along:
Da... | He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.
He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
He's staring at the passers with his customary stare.
He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng,
That current cosmopolitan meandering along:
Da... | You question why the passers-by I piercingly review . . .
Well, listen, my bibacious friend, I'll tell my tale to you.
"It happened twenty years ago, and in another land:
A maiden young and beautiful, two suitors for her hand.
My rival was the lucky one; I vowed I would repay;
Revenge has mellowed in my heart, it's rot... | free_verse |
Hilaire Belloc | The Tiger | The tiger, on the other hand,
Is kittenish and mild,
And makes a pretty playfellow
For any little child.
And mothers of large families
(Who claim to common sense)
Will find a tiger well repays
The trouble and expense. | The tiger, on the other hand,
Is kittenish and mild, | And makes a pretty playfellow
For any little child.
And mothers of large families
(Who claim to common sense)
Will find a tiger well repays
The trouble and expense. | octave |
Kate Seymour Maclean | The Higher Law. | Love and Obedience--these the Higher Law
From which Thy worlds have swerved not, singing still
Their primal hymn rejoicing, as at first
The morning stars together. Hast thou heard,
In vast and silent spaces of the sky,
What time the bead-roll of the universe
God calls in heaven, every tiniest star--
From myriad twinkli... | Love and Obedience--these the Higher Law
From which Thy worlds have swerved not, singing still
Their primal hymn rejoicing, as at first
The morning stars together. Hast thou heard, | In vast and silent spaces of the sky,
What time the bead-roll of the universe
God calls in heaven, every tiniest star--
From myriad twinkling points--from plummet depths
Of dark too vast for eye and sense to guess,
Send up a little silver answer "I am here."
Even so, the humblest of thy little ones, dear Lord,
May thro... | sonnet |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Intellect | Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals;--
The sower scatters broad his seed;
The wheat thou strew'st be souls. | Go, speed the stars of Thought | On to their shining goals;--
The sower scatters broad his seed;
The wheat thou strew'st be souls. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Blue Bird. | From morn till noon upon the window-pane
The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails,
And all the afternoon the blustering gales
Beat at the door with furious feet of rain.
The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain,
Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails,
On which the sullen slug left slimy trails
Meseemed ... | From morn till noon upon the window-pane
The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails,
And all the afternoon the blustering gales
Beat at the door with furious feet of rain. | The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain,
Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails,
On which the sullen slug left slimy trails
Meseemed the sun would never shine again.
Then in the drench, long, loud and full of cheer,
A skyey herald tabarded in blue,
A bluebird bugled... and at once a bow
Was bent in heave... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Hymn To Bacchus | Bacchus, let me drink no more!
Wild are seas that want a shore!
When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up for to please
Thee, that great cup, Hercules.
Urge no more; and there shall be
Daffodils giv'n up to thee. | Bacchus, let me drink no more!
Wild are seas that want a shore! | When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up for to please
Thee, that great cup, Hercules.
Urge no more; and there shall be
Daffodils giv'n up to thee. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | "The Brain Within Its Groove" | The brain within its groove
Runs evenly and true;
But let a splinter swerve,
'T were easier for you
To put the water back
When floods have slit the hills,
And scooped a turnpike for themselves,
And blotted out the mills! | The brain within its groove
Runs evenly and true; | But let a splinter swerve,
'T were easier for you
To put the water back
When floods have slit the hills,
And scooped a turnpike for themselves,
And blotted out the mills! | octave |
Rudyard Kipling | Covenent | We thought we ranked above the chance of ill.
Others might fall, not we, for we were wise,
Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will
We let our servants drug our strength with lies.
The pleasure and the poison had its way
On us as on the meanest, till we learned
That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay.
Neith... | We thought we ranked above the chance of ill.
Others might fall, not we, for we were wise,
Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will
We let our servants drug our strength with lies. | The pleasure and the poison had its way
On us as on the meanest, till we learned
That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay.
Neither God's judgment nor man's heart was turned.
Yet there remains His Mercy to be sought
Through wrath and peril till we cleanse the wrong
By that last right which our forefathers claim... | sonnet |
William Shakespeare | The Sonnets L - How heavy do I journey on the way | How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd no... | How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!' | The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me th... | sonnet |
William Butler Yeats | Maid Quiet | Where has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood?
The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
O how could I be so calm
When she rose up to depart?
Now words that called up the lightning
Are hurtling through my heart. | Where has Maid Quiet gone to,
Nodding her russet hood? | The winds that awakened the stars
Are blowing through my blood.
O how could I be so calm
When she rose up to depart?
Now words that called up the lightning
Are hurtling through my heart. | octave |
Margaret Steele Anderson | The Invalid Child. | When I see other women's sons at play,
God, pity me, lest I should turn away
In rage and grief, and should not dare to look
At my child, sitting patient with his book!
But when their sons hold all the world in fee,
With young men's pride, oh, then think not of me!
Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod,
And give my ... | When I see other women's sons at play,
God, pity me, lest I should turn away | In rage and grief, and should not dare to look
At my child, sitting patient with his book!
But when their sons hold all the world in fee,
With young men's pride, oh, then think not of me!
Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod,
And give my son his manhood, my God! | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Vanished. | She died, -- this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side. | She died, -- this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done, | Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side. | octave |
Robert Herrick | To The Earl Of Westmoreland. | When my date's done, and my grey age must die,
Nurse up, great lord, this my posterity:
Weak though it be, long may it grow and stand,
Shored up by you, brave Earl of Westmoreland. | When my date's done, and my grey age must die, | Nurse up, great lord, this my posterity:
Weak though it be, long may it grow and stand,
Shored up by you, brave Earl of Westmoreland. | quatrain |
Alfred Lord Tennyson | A Medley: Thy Voice Is Heard (The Princess) | Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee. | Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands; | Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee. | octave |
William Butler Yeats | A Stick Of Incense | Whence did all that fury come?
From empty tomb or Virgin womb?
Saint Joseph thought the world would melt
But liked the way his finger smelt.
| Whence did all that fury come? | From empty tomb or Virgin womb?
Saint Joseph thought the world would melt
But liked the way his finger smelt. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | The Soul Should Always Stand Ajar, | The soul should always stand ajar,
That if the heaven inquire,
He will not be obliged to wait,
Or shy of troubling her.
Depart, before the host has slid
The bolt upon the door,
To seek for the accomplished guest, --
Her visitor no more. | The soul should always stand ajar,
That if the heaven inquire, | He will not be obliged to wait,
Or shy of troubling her.
Depart, before the host has slid
The bolt upon the door,
To seek for the accomplished guest, --
Her visitor no more. | octave |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | Sampan Song | A little breeze blew over the sea,
And it came from far away,
Across the fields of millet and rice,
All warm with sunshine and sweet with spice,
It lifted his curls and kissed him thrice,
As upon the deck he lay.
It said, "Oh, idle upon the sea,
Awake and with sleep have done,
Haul up the widest sail of the prow,
And c... | A little breeze blew over the sea,
And it came from far away,
Across the fields of millet and rice,
All warm with sunshine and sweet with spice, | It lifted his curls and kissed him thrice,
As upon the deck he lay.
It said, "Oh, idle upon the sea,
Awake and with sleep have done,
Haul up the widest sail of the prow,
And come with me to the rice fields now,
She longs, oh, how can I tell you how,
To show you your first-born son!" | free_verse |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Philosophy. | At morn the wise man walked abroad,
Proud with the learning of great fools.
He laughed and said, "There is no God -
'Tis force creates, 'tis reason rules."
Meek with the wisdom of great faith,
At night he knelt while angels smiled,
And wept and cried with anguished breath,
"Jehovah, God, save thou my child." | At morn the wise man walked abroad,
Proud with the learning of great fools. | He laughed and said, "There is no God -
'Tis force creates, 'tis reason rules."
Meek with the wisdom of great faith,
At night he knelt while angels smiled,
And wept and cried with anguished breath,
"Jehovah, God, save thou my child." | octave |
William Wordsworth | There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains | 'There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only Poets know'; 'twas rightly said;
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains?
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,
How oft the malice of one luckless word
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Haunts him be... | 'There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only Poets know'; 'twas rightly said;
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? | When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,
How oft the malice of one luckless word
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Haunts him belated on the silent plains!
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,
At last, of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;
Bright, speckles... | sonnet |
William Henry Drummond | Spring Bereaved III | Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She set her by these musk'd eglantines,
The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,
To whi... | Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. | She set her by these musk'd eglantines,
The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes w... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCVII. Lullabies. | Give me a blow, and I'll beat 'em,
Why did they vex my baby?
Kissy, kiss, kissy, my honey,
And cuddle your nurse, my deary. | Give me a blow, and I'll beat 'em, | Why did they vex my baby?
Kissy, kiss, kissy, my honey,
And cuddle your nurse, my deary. | quatrain |
Walter Crane | Hush-A-By Baby | Hush-a-by baby on the tree-top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall--
Down comes baby, cradle and all! | Hush-a-by baby on the tree-top, | When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall--
Down comes baby, cradle and all! | quatrain |
Walter R. Cassels | A Withered Rose-Bud | Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth,
Tracking the course of Life's short wandering,
With fallen remnants of its mortal part,
Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.
Thou flower of Love! thou little treasu... | Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth,
Tracking the course of Life's short wandering,
With fallen remnants of its mortal part,
Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.
Thou flower of Love! thou little treasu... | And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd,
And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears;
But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan,
And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!
Thus fade we--thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright,
Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime,
And their poor fabrics lie within our si... | free_verse |
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