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Michael Drayton | Sonet 3 | Many there be excelling in this kind,
Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his minde,
Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell.
That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,
Let none think them disparaged to be,
Poore men with reuerence may speake of a King,
And so may these be ... | Many there be excelling in this kind,
Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his minde,
Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell. | That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,
Let none think them disparaged to be,
Poore men with reuerence may speake of a King,
And so may these be spoken of by mee;
My wanton verse nere keepes one certaine stay,
But now, at hand; then, seekes inuention far,
And with each little motion runnes astray,
Wilde, madding, ioco... | sonnet |
Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley | Disappointment. | The light has left the hill-side. Yesterday
These skies shewed blue against the dusky trees,
The leaves' soft murmur in the evening breeze
Was music, and the waves danced in the bay.
Then was my heart, as ever, far away
With you, - and I could see you as one sees
A mirrored face, - and happiness and ease
And hope were ... | The light has left the hill-side. Yesterday
These skies shewed blue against the dusky trees,
The leaves' soft murmur in the evening breeze
Was music, and the waves danced in the bay. | Then was my heart, as ever, far away
With you, - and I could see you as one sees
A mirrored face, - and happiness and ease
And hope were mine, in spite of long delay.
After these months of waiting, this is all!
Hope, dead, lies coffined, shrouded in despair,
With all the blessings of the outer air
Forgot, 'neath the bl... | sonnet |
Rudyard Kipling | Song Of The Engines | We now, held in captivity,
Spring to our labours nor greive!
See now, how it is a blesseder,
Brothers, to give than to receive!
Keep trust, wherefore ye were made,
Paying the duty ye owe;
For a clean thrust and the sheer of the blade
Shall carry us where we should go. | We now, held in captivity,
Spring to our labours nor greive! | See now, how it is a blesseder,
Brothers, to give than to receive!
Keep trust, wherefore ye were made,
Paying the duty ye owe;
For a clean thrust and the sheer of the blade
Shall carry us where we should go. | free_verse |
George Pope Morris | A Legend of the Mohawk. | In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he.
Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love--
In the days that are gone, by th... | In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he. | Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love--
In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.
In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow,
The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride;
Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow,
And stol... | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | Adversity | A barren field o'ergrown with thorn and weed
It stays for him who waits for help from God:
Only the soul that makes a plough of Need
Shall know what blossoms underneath its sod. | A barren field o'ergrown with thorn and weed | It stays for him who waits for help from God:
Only the soul that makes a plough of Need
Shall know what blossoms underneath its sod. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Lost. | I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You'll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me! | I lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found? | You'll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me! | octave |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning | The Romaunt Of Margret (Excerpts) | IX
'My lips do need thy breath,
My lips do need thy smile,
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile:
Yet go with light and life
If that thou lovest one
In all the earth who loveth thee
As truly as the sun.
Margret, Margret.'
XIV
'But better loveth he
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted song,
... | IX
'My lips do need thy breath,
My lips do need thy smile,
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile:
Yet go with light and life
If that thou lovest one
In all the earth who loveth thee
As truly as the sun.
Margret, Margret.'
XIV
'But better loveth he | Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted song,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.'
XVII
'But better loveth she
Thy golden comb than thy gathered flowers,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.'
XXII
'We brake no gold, a sign
Of stronger faith to be,
But I wear his last look in my soul,
Which said, I love but ... | free_verse |
John Collings Squire, Sir | In A Chair | The room is full of the peace of night,
The small flames murmur and flicker and sway,
Within me is neither shadow, nor light,
Nor night, nor twilight, nor dawn, nor day.
For the brain strives not to the goal of thought,
And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire
Sleeps for a while, and I am naught
But a pair of eyes tha... | The room is full of the peace of night,
The small flames murmur and flicker and sway, | Within me is neither shadow, nor light,
Nor night, nor twilight, nor dawn, nor day.
For the brain strives not to the goal of thought,
And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire
Sleeps for a while, and I am naught
But a pair of eyes that gaze at a fire. | octave |
Horatio Alger, Jr. | Mrs. Merdle Discourseth Of Wishes And Her Sufferings. | 'If wishes were horses'--I've heard when a girl--
'If wishes were horses, the beggars would ride'--
If wishes were pheasants, I'd wish with a skirl
Till cooked ones came flying and sat by my side.
A fig, then, for doctors, their tinctures and drugs;
Good eating would cure me, with plenty of game;
And as for pill boxes,... | 'If wishes were horses'--I've heard when a girl--
'If wishes were horses, the beggars would ride'--
If wishes were pheasants, I'd wish with a skirl
Till cooked ones came flying and sat by my side.
A fig, then, for doctors, their tinctures and drugs;
Good eating would cure me, with plenty of game; | And as for pill boxes, and bottles, and jugs,
I wouldn't know one, when I saw it, by name.
Oh, dear! such a load now my stomach oppresses,
While eating these trifles, attempting to dine--
I'm sure 'taint the turkey--it must be my dresses--
And if so 't will ease them to sip sherry wine.
'Tis sad, though, to be such a s... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | Written In London. September, 1802 | O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in natur... | O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, | Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old ... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Love's Mirage | Midway upon the route, he paused athirst
And suddenly across the wastes of heat,
He saw cool waters gleaming, and a sweet
Green oasis upon his vision burst.
A tender dream, long in his bosom nursed,
Spread love's illusive verdure for his feet;
The barren sands changed into golden wheat;
The way grew glad that late had ... | Midway upon the route, he paused athirst
And suddenly across the wastes of heat,
He saw cool waters gleaming, and a sweet
Green oasis upon his vision burst. | A tender dream, long in his bosom nursed,
Spread love's illusive verdure for his feet;
The barren sands changed into golden wheat;
The way grew glad that late had seemed accursed.
She shone, the woman wonder, on his soul;
The garden spot, for which men toil and wait;
The house of rest, that is each heart's demand;
But ... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon The Roses In Julia's Bosom. | Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have
Within the bosom of my love your grave.
Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known,
Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone. | Thrice happy roses, so much grac'd to have | Within the bosom of my love your grave.
Die when ye will, your sepulchre is known,
Your grave her bosom is, the lawn the stone. | quatrain |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | A Girl's Faith. | Across the miles that stretch between,
Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,
There shines a face I have not seen
Which yet doth make my world more bright.
He may be near, he may be far,
Or near or far I cannot see,
But faithful as the morning star
He yet shall rise and come to me.
What though fate leads us separate w... | Across the miles that stretch between,
Through days of gloom or glad sunlight,
There shines a face I have not seen
Which yet doth make my world more bright.
He may be near, he may be far,
Or near or far I cannot see,
But faithful as the morning star
He yet shall rise and come to me. | What though fate leads us separate ways,
The world is round, and time is fleet.
A journey of a few brief days,
And face to face we two shall meet.
Shall meet beneath God's arching skies,
While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam,
And looking in each other's eyes
Shall hold the past but as a dream.
But round and perf... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford, For Naples | A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift ... | A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain | For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laureled conqueror k... | sonnet |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | The Visit | Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
Devastator of the day!
Know, each substance and relation,
Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater,--
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,--
Say, what other metre is... | Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
Devastator of the day!
Know, each substance and relation,
Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater,--
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,-- | Say, what other metre is it
Than the meeting of the eyes?
Nature poureth into nature
Through the channels of that feature,
Riding on the ray of sight,
Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,
Or for service, or delight,
Hearts to hearts their meaning show,
Sum their long experience,
And import intelligence.
Single look has drai... | free_verse |
Rudyard Kipling | The Tour | Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took,
He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
Accused of storming through that placed nook
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile, five pounds. And Juan paid! | Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took,
He was a publisher. The new Police | Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
Accused of storming through that placed nook
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile, five pounds. And Juan paid! | octave |
Thomas Hood | The Dream Of Eugene Aram.[1] | I.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
II.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wick... | I.
'Twas in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
II.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wick... | XIII.
"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme, -
Woe, woe, unutterable woe, -
Who spill life's sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder, in a dream!"
XIV.
"One that had never done me wrong -
A feeble man, and old;
I led him to a lonely field, -
The moon shone c... | free_verse |
William Lisle Bowles | Epitaph On H. Walmsley, Esq. - In Alverstoke Church, Hants. | Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew
Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true;
The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,
Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;
Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease
Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze,
Pale from thy hospitable home depart,
... | Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew
Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true;
The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,
Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;
Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease | Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze,
Pale from thy hospitable home depart,
Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart!
But how shall she her love, her loss express,
Thy widow, in this uttermost distress,
When she with anguish hears her lisping train
Upon their buried father call in vain!
She wipes the tea... | free_verse |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Moods | Oh that a Song would sing itself to me
Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart
Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,
Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea,
With just enough of bitterness to be
A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start
The life-blood in my veins, and so impart
Healing and help in this dull le... | Oh that a Song would sing itself to me
Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart
Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,
Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, | With just enough of bitterness to be
A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start
The life-blood in my veins, and so impart
Healing and help in this dull lethargy!
Alas! not always doth the breath of song
Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth
At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long;
We hear the sound th... | sonnet |
Frank Sidgwick | John Dory | The Text is from Ravenscroft's Deuteromelia (1609), the only text that has come down to us of a 'three-man's song' which achieved extraordinary popularity during' the seventeenth century.
The Story.--'Good King John of France' is presumed to be John II., who was taken prisoner at the battle of Poictiers and died in 136... | The Text is from Ravenscroft's Deuteromelia (1609), the only text that has come down to us of a 'three-man's song' which achieved extraordinary popularity during' the seventeenth century.
The Story.--'Good King John of France' is presumed to be John II., who was taken prisoner at the battle of Poictiers and died in 136... | John Dory could well of his courtesie,
But fell down in a trance-a.
4.
'A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king,
For my merry men and for me-a,
And all the churles in merry England,
I'll bring them all bound to thee-a.'
5.
And Nicholl was then a Cornish man
A little beside Bohide-a,
And he manned forth a good black ba... | free_verse |
Vachel Lindsay | Our Guardian Angels and Their Children | Where a river roars in rapids
And doves in maples fret,
Where peace has decked the pastures
Our guardian angels met.
Long they had sought each other
In God's mysterious name,
Had climbed the solemn chaos tides
Alone, with hope aflame:
Amid the demon deeps had wound
By many a fearful way.
As they beheld each other
Their... | Where a river roars in rapids
And doves in maples fret,
Where peace has decked the pastures
Our guardian angels met.
Long they had sought each other
In God's mysterious name,
Had climbed the solemn chaos tides
Alone, with hope aflame:
Amid the demon deeps had wound
By many a fearful way.
As they beheld each other
Their... | Long we held each other
And watched their deeds of power.
They made a curious Eden.
We saw that it was good.
We thought with them in unison.
We proudly understood
Their amaranth eternal,
Their roses strange and fair,
The asphodels they scattered
Upon the living air.
They built a house of clouds
With skilled immortal ha... | free_verse |
Victor-Marie Hugo | The Greek Boy. | ("Les Turcs ont pass's l'.")
[XVIII., June 10, 1828.]
All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds:
Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds,
For shivered yest'reen was her lance;
Sulphurous vapors envenom the place
Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race
Were lately linked close in the dance.
Dark is the desert, w... | ("Les Turcs ont pass's l'.")
[XVIII., June 10, 1828.]
All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds:
Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds,
For shivered yest'reen was her lance;
Sulphurous vapors envenom the place
Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race
Were lately linked close in the dance. | Dark is the desert, with one single soul;
Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll
In anguish of uttermost shame,
Under the shadow of one shrub of May,
Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay
Where fiercely the hand of Lust came.
"Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash
Of rein and of scabbard of wild... | free_verse |
Lola Ridge | Babel | Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel -
Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,
So that never again should men be able
To fashion one infinite, towering whole. | Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel - | Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,
So that never again should men be able
To fashion one infinite, towering whole. | quatrain |
Robert Lee Frost | Iota Subscript | Seek not in me the big I capital,
Not yet the little dotted in me seek.
If I have in me any I at all,
'Tis the iota subscript of the Greek.
So small am I as an attention beggar.
The letter you will find me subscript to
Is neither alpha, eta, nor omega,
But upsilon which is the Greek for you. | Seek not in me the big I capital,
Not yet the little dotted in me seek. | If I have in me any I at all,
'Tis the iota subscript of the Greek.
So small am I as an attention beggar.
The letter you will find me subscript to
Is neither alpha, eta, nor omega,
But upsilon which is the Greek for you. | octave |
Robert Herrick | A Short Hymn To Lar. | Though I cannot give thee fires
Glittering to my free desires;
These accept, and I'll be free,
Offering poppy unto thee. | Though I cannot give thee fires | Glittering to my free desires;
These accept, and I'll be free,
Offering poppy unto thee. | quatrain |
Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule) | One By One | One by one, ye are passing, beloved,
Out of the shadow into the light.
One by one,
Are your tasks all done.
Ended the toil, and the swift race run.
Child and maiden, mother and sire,
Sister and brother,
Ye follow each other,
Out of the darkness where we stand weeping,
Weary and faint with our virgil-keeping,
Into die s... | One by one, ye are passing, beloved,
Out of the shadow into the light.
One by one,
Are your tasks all done.
Ended the toil, and the swift race run.
Child and maiden, mother and sire,
Sister and brother,
Ye follow each other,
Out of the darkness where we stand weeping,
Weary and faint with our virgil-keeping,
Into die s... | Gliding on alone,
Hearing nor heeding our plaint and moan.
Friend and lover, the fondest, best,
Most tender and true,
Ye pass from our view,
Out of the night that enfolds us ever,
Out of the mists where we moan and shiver;
Into the joy-light of sunniest skies!
One by one, we are hasting, beloved,
Out of the midnight in... | free_verse |
Robert Lowell | Dolphin | My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Ph'dre.
When I was troubled in mind, you made for my body
caught in its hangman's-knot of sinking lines,
the glassy bowing and scraping of my will....
I hav... | My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Ph'dre.
When I was troubled in mind, you made for my body | caught in its hangman's-knot of sinking lines,
the glassy bowing and scraping of my will....
I have sat and listened to too many
words of the collaborating muse,
and plotted perhaps too freely with my life,
not avoiding injury to others,
not avoiding injury to myself
to ask compassion... this book, half fiction,
an eel... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CLXIII. Songs. | As I was going up the hill,
I met with Jack the piper,
And all the tunes that he could play
Was "Tie up your petticoats tighter."
I tied them once, I tied them twice,
I tied them three times over;
And all the songs that he could sing
Was "Carry me safe to Dover." | As I was going up the hill,
I met with Jack the piper, | And all the tunes that he could play
Was "Tie up your petticoats tighter."
I tied them once, I tied them twice,
I tied them three times over;
And all the songs that he could sing
Was "Carry me safe to Dover." | octave |
Lydia Howard Sigourney | In Memoriam. - Hon. Thomas S. Williams, | Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.
'Tis not for pen and ink,
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.
And yet 'twere sad
If such example were allow'd to fleet
Without abiding trac... | Late Chief Justice of Connecticut, died at Hartford, on Sunday morning, December 15th, 1861, aged 84.
'Tis not for pen and ink,
Or the weak measures of the muse, to give
Fit transcript of his virtues who hath risen
Up from our midst this day.
And yet 'twere sad
If such example were allow'd to fleet
Without abiding trac... | Of charities that knew
No stint or boundary, save the woes of man
He wish'd no mention made. But doubt ye not
Their record is above.
Without the tax
That age doth levy, on the eye or ear,
Movement of limbs, or social sympathies,
In sweet retirement of domestic joy
His calm, unshadow'd pilgrimage was closed
By an unsigh... | free_verse |
Thomas Hardy | At A Lunar Eclipse | Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
Of imperturbable serenity.
How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry
With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
That profile, placid as a brow divine,
With continents of moil and misery?
And can ... | Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
Of imperturbable serenity. | How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry
With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
That profile, placid as a brow divine,
With continents of moil and misery?
And can immense Mortality but throw
So small a shade, and Heaven's high human scheme
Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies?
Is such the stellar gauge of e... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Extract From The Conclusion Of A Poem | Dear native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.
Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regio... | Dear native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end, | If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.
Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west,
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills whe... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Not Any Higher Stands The Grave | Not any higher stands the grave
For heroes than for men;
Not any nearer for the child
Than numb three-score and ten.
This latest leisure equal lulls
The beggar and his queen;
Propitiate this democrat
By summer's gracious mien. | Not any higher stands the grave
For heroes than for men; | Not any nearer for the child
Than numb three-score and ten.
This latest leisure equal lulls
The beggar and his queen;
Propitiate this democrat
By summer's gracious mien. | octave |
John Gay | Cupid, Hymen, And Plutus. | As Cupid, with his band of sprites,
In Paphian grove set things to rights,
And trimmed his bow and tipped his arrows,
And taught, to play with Lesbia, sparrows,
Thus Hymen said: "Your blindness makes,
O Cupid, wonderful mistakes!
You send me such ill-coupled folks:
It grieves me, now, to give them yokes.
An old chap, w... | As Cupid, with his band of sprites,
In Paphian grove set things to rights,
And trimmed his bow and tipped his arrows,
And taught, to play with Lesbia, sparrows,
Thus Hymen said: "Your blindness makes,
O Cupid, wonderful mistakes!
You send me such ill-coupled folks:
It grieves me, now, to give them yokes.
An old chap, w... | Or join incongruous minds together,
To squabble for a pin or feather
Until they sue for a divorce;
To which the wife assents - of course."
"It is your fault, and none of mine,"
Cupid replied. "I hearts combine:
You trade in settlements and deeds,
And care not for the heart that bleeds.
You couple them for gold and fee;... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | A Vow To Mars. | Store of courage to me grant,
Now I'm turn'd a combatant;
Help me, so that I my shield,
Fighting, lose not in the field.
That's the greatest shame of all
That in warfare can befall.
Do but this, and there shall be
Offer'd up a wolf to thee. | Store of courage to me grant,
Now I'm turn'd a combatant; | Help me, so that I my shield,
Fighting, lose not in the field.
That's the greatest shame of all
That in warfare can befall.
Do but this, and there shall be
Offer'd up a wolf to thee. | octave |
William Wordsworth | The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XXXIV - After-Thought | I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in o... | I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide; | Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as... | sonnet |
Matthew Prior | Songs Set To Music: 2. Set By Mr. Purcell | Whither would my passion run?
Shall I fly her, or pursue her?
Losing her I am undone,
Yet would not gain her to undo her.
Ye tyrants of the human breast,
Love and Reason, cease your war,
And order Death to give me rest,
So each will equal triumph share. | Whither would my passion run?
Shall I fly her, or pursue her? | Losing her I am undone,
Yet would not gain her to undo her.
Ye tyrants of the human breast,
Love and Reason, cease your war,
And order Death to give me rest,
So each will equal triumph share. | octave |
Sara Teasdale | After Parting | Oh, I have sown my love so wide
That he will find it everywhere;
It will awake him in the night,
It will enfold him in the air.
I set my shadow in his sight
And I have winged it with desire,
That it may be a cloud by day,
And in the night a shaft of fire. | Oh, I have sown my love so wide
That he will find it everywhere; | It will awake him in the night,
It will enfold him in the air.
I set my shadow in his sight
And I have winged it with desire,
That it may be a cloud by day,
And in the night a shaft of fire. | octave |
Maurice Henry Hewlett | The Winds' Possession | When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall,
And the wan sunlight flits before the blast;
When fields are brown and crops are garnered all,
And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast;
Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood
Leap like a freshet river for the sea,
Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood
... | When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall,
And the wan sunlight flits before the blast;
When fields are brown and crops are garnered all,
And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast; | Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood
Leap like a freshet river for the sea,
Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood
To snuff the salt west wind and wanton free.
Then would you know how brave she is, how high
Her ancestry, how kindred to the wind,
Mark but her flashing feet, her ravisht eye
That takes the boist... | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | Old Homes | Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;
Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;
Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;
Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;
Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres,
Severe of ... | Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;
Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;
Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;
Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;
Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres,
Severe of ... | Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,
Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.
Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies
Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers
Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,
And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,
And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.
I... | free_verse |
Richard Le Gallienne | Ballade Of Love's Cloister | Had I the gold that some so vainly spend,
For my lost loves a temple would I raise,
A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend
Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise;
And I would live the remnant of my days,
Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams,
At prayer before each consecrated face,
Kneeling w... | Had I the gold that some so vainly spend,
For my lost loves a temple would I raise,
A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend
Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise;
And I would live the remnant of my days,
Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams,
At prayer before each consecrated face,
Kneeling w... | Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze,
And to each lovely and beloved friend
Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays
From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's,
And there should be a sound for ever of streams
And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place, -
Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
O'er ... | free_verse |
Paul Cameron Brown | Chain Letter | I'm sitting in a "sixties bar." No put-on.
All around old Rolling Stones music is playing.
I can tell it's a sixties bar by the spiffy waiter recycling sheets for
tablecloths. The sixties was "into," environment.
It's the eighties now as Heineken was unobtainable in 1969.
Someone reminds me in order to run a tab a cred... | I'm sitting in a "sixties bar." No put-on.
All around old Rolling Stones music is playing.
I can tell it's a sixties bar by the spiffy waiter recycling sheets for
tablecloths. The sixties was "into," environment.
It's the eighties now as Heineken was unobtainable in 1969.
Someone reminds me in order to run a tab a cred... | It's too built up for Sha-Na-Na, fintails or Nancy Sinatra's,
These Boots Are Made For Walking.
In my sensible decade that tune is considered sadistic. Obviously,
the effect is too sophisticated to imagine I'm even a temporary
time traveller. Still, poetry is a communicable disease
invented in the 1920's by a snooty de... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Center, A Spectacle-Maker With A Flat Nose. | Center is known weak-sighted, and he sells
To others store of helpful spectacles.
Why wears he none? Because we may suppose,
Where leaven wants, there level lies the nose. | Center is known weak-sighted, and he sells | To others store of helpful spectacles.
Why wears he none? Because we may suppose,
Where leaven wants, there level lies the nose. | quatrain |
Oliver Goldsmith | A Sonnet | Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
MYRA, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had MYRA followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear. | Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight; | MYRA, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had MYRA followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear. | octave |
Robert Herrick | Upon Prigg. | Prigg, when he comes to houses, oft doth use,
Rather than fail, to steal from thence old shoes:
Sound or unsound be they, or rent or whole,
Prigg bears away the body and the sole. | Prigg, when he comes to houses, oft doth use, | Rather than fail, to steal from thence old shoes:
Sound or unsound be they, or rent or whole,
Prigg bears away the body and the sole. | quatrain |
Rudyard Kipling | The Justice's Tale | With them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his governance,
That, by the... | With them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat, | And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his governance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backes on an horne hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-sho... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Silvia. | I am holy while I stand
Circum-crost by thy pure hand;
But when that is gone, again
I, as others, am profane. | I am holy while I stand | Circum-crost by thy pure hand;
But when that is gone, again
I, as others, am profane. | quatrain |
Alan Seeger | After an Epigram of Clement Marot | The lad I was I longer now
Nor am nor shall be evermore.
Spring's lovely blossoms from my brow
Have shed their petals on the floor.
Thou, Love, hast been my lord, thy shrine
Above all gods' best served by me.
Dear Love, could life again be mine
How bettered should that service be! | The lad I was I longer now
Nor am nor shall be evermore. | Spring's lovely blossoms from my brow
Have shed their petals on the floor.
Thou, Love, hast been my lord, thy shrine
Above all gods' best served by me.
Dear Love, could life again be mine
How bettered should that service be! | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXVIII. Love And Matrimony. | On Saturday night,
Shall be all my care
To powder my locks
And curl my hair.
On Sunday morning
My love will come in,
When he will marry me
With a gold ring. | On Saturday night,
Shall be all my care | To powder my locks
And curl my hair.
On Sunday morning
My love will come in,
When he will marry me
With a gold ring. | octave |
Ralph Waldo Emerson | Poet | Ever the Poet from the land
Steers his bark and trims his sail;
Right out to sea his courses stand,
New worlds to find in pinnace frail. | Ever the Poet from the land | Steers his bark and trims his sail;
Right out to sea his courses stand,
New worlds to find in pinnace frail. | quatrain |
John Le Gay Brereton | Beauty And Hate | I have sought and followed you, drunk with your sacred wine;
Led out by a laughing wind on a tumbling sea,
On crags amid clouds, in cups that allure the bee,
And deep in the gem-lit gloom of the tortuous mine,
And on widespread wings where the great worlds dance and shine
I have sought by the golden light; but have ben... | I have sought and followed you, drunk with your sacred wine;
Led out by a laughing wind on a tumbling sea,
On crags amid clouds, in cups that allure the bee,
And deep in the gem-lit gloom of the tortuous mine, | And on widespread wings where the great worlds dance and shine
I have sought by the golden light; but have bent the knee
At last where you lie, a humble goddess and free,
Naked and flushed in the warmth of a crimson shrine.
The hordes of hate have trampled your blooms in mire,
And cackle and roar as their mockery pries... | sonnet |
Walter Crane | Ding Dong Bell | Ding dong bell!
Pussy's in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Lin.
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who ne'er did any harm,
But killed all the mice in father's barn. | Ding dong bell!
Pussy's in the well!
Who put her in? | Little Tommy Lin.
Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Stout.
What a naughty boy was that
To drown poor pussy-cat,
Who ne'er did any harm,
But killed all the mice in father's barn. | free_verse |
George MacDonald | The Prophet | Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start
To find thee with us in thine ancient dress,
Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness,
Empty of all save God and thy loud heart,
Nor with like rugged message quick to dart
Into the hideous fiction mean and base;
But yet, O prophet man, we need not less
But more of earnest... | Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start
To find thee with us in thine ancient dress,
Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness,
Empty of all save God and thy loud heart, | Nor with like rugged message quick to dart
Into the hideous fiction mean and base;
But yet, O prophet man, we need not less
But more of earnest, though it is thy part
To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite
The living Mammon, seated, not as then
In bestial quiescence grimly dight,
But robed as priest, and honoure... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To Electra. Love Looks For Love. | Love love begets, then never be
Unsoft to him who's smooth to thee.
Tigers and bears, I've heard some say,
For proffer'd love will love repay:
None are so harsh, but if they find
Softness in others, will be kind;
Affection will affection move,
Then you must like because I love. | Love love begets, then never be
Unsoft to him who's smooth to thee. | Tigers and bears, I've heard some say,
For proffer'd love will love repay:
None are so harsh, but if they find
Softness in others, will be kind;
Affection will affection move,
Then you must like because I love. | octave |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Simple Creeds | If this were our creed it were creed enough
To keep us thoughtful and make us brave;
On this sad journey o'er pathways rough
That lead us steadily on to the grave.
Speak no evil, and cause no ache,
Utter no jest that can pain awake;
Guard your actions and bridle your tongue,
Words are adders when hearts are stung.
If t... | If this were our creed it were creed enough
To keep us thoughtful and make us brave;
On this sad journey o'er pathways rough
That lead us steadily on to the grave.
Speak no evil, and cause no ache,
Utter no jest that can pain awake;
Guard your actions and bridle your tongue,
Words are adders when hearts are stung. | If this were our aim, it were all, in sooth,
That any soul needs, to climb to heaven,
And we would not cumber the way of truth
With dreary dogmas, or rites priest given.
Help whoever, whenever you can,
Man for ever needs aid from man.
Let never a day die in the West,
That you have not comforted some sad heart.
Were thi... | free_verse |
Ellis Parker Butler | To May | I have no heart to write verses to May;
I have no heart - yet I'm cheerful today;
I have no heart - she has won mine away
So - I have no heart to write verses to May. | I have no heart to write verses to May; | I have no heart - yet I'm cheerful today;
I have no heart - she has won mine away
So - I have no heart to write verses to May. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DC. Local. | The little priest of Felton,
The little priest of Felton,
He kill'd a mouse within his house,
And ne'er a one to help him. | The little priest of Felton, | The little priest of Felton,
He kill'd a mouse within his house,
And ne'er a one to help him. | quatrain |
William Cowper | To Dr. Austin, Of Cecil Street, London. | Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died:
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are g... | Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find; | Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died:
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health!
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his arts with less,
Who, ... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XI - The Faery Chasm | No fiction was it of the antique age:
A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
Is of the very footmarks unbereft
Which tiny Elves impressed; on that smooth stage
Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
In secret revels, haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe, Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted M... | No fiction was it of the antique age:
A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
Is of the very footmarks unbereft
Which tiny Elves impressed; on that smooth stage | Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
In secret revels, haply after theft
Of some sweet Babe, Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
For the distracted Mother to assuage
Her grief with, as she might! But, where, oh! where
Is traceable a vestige of the notes
That ruled those dances wild in character?
Deep underground? ... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DCXLII. Relics. | When Jacky's a very good boy,
He shall have cakes and a custard;
But when he does nothing but cry,
He shall have nothing but mustard. | When Jacky's a very good boy, | He shall have cakes and a custard;
But when he does nothing but cry,
He shall have nothing but mustard. | quatrain |
Frank Sidgwick | The Baron Of Brackley | The Text is from Alexander Laing's Scarce Ancient Ballads (1822). A similar version occurs in Buchan's Gleanings (1825). Professor Gummere, in printing the first text, omits six stanzas, on the assumption that they represent part of a second ballad imperfectly incorporated. But I think the ballad can be read as it stan... | The Text is from Alexander Laing's Scarce Ancient Ballads (1822). A similar version occurs in Buchan's Gleanings (1825). Professor Gummere, in printing the first text, omits six stanzas, on the assumption that they represent part of a second ballad imperfectly incorporated. But I think the ballad can be read as it stan... | 'But haud your tongue, Peggy, and mak nae sic din,
For yon same hir'd widifu's will prove themselves men.'
14.
She called on her marys, they cam to her hand;
Cries, 'Bring me your rocks, lassies, we will them command.
15.
'Get up, get up, Braikley, and turn bak your ky,
Or me and mi women will them defy.
16.
'Cum forth... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | From Unbelief To Belief. | Why come ye here to sigh that I,
Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lie
Before ye, am at rest, at rest!
For that the pistons of my blood
No more in this machinery thud?
And on these eyes, that once were blest
With magnetism of fire, are prest
Thin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath,
Whereon the bony claw of Death
Hath ... | Why come ye here to sigh that I,
Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lie
Before ye, am at rest, at rest!
For that the pistons of my blood
No more in this machinery thud?
And on these eyes, that once were blest
With magnetism of fire, are prest
Thin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath,
Whereon the bony claw of Death
Hath ... | Your God hath given him! unsought
Of any prayers, whiles yet he wrought, -
And with what sacrifices bought!
Low, sweet communion mouth to mouth
Of thoughts that dewed eternal drought
Of Life's bald barrenness, - a jest,
An irony hath grown confessed
When he's at rest! when he's at rest!
Why come ye, fools! - ye lie! y... | free_verse |
Robert Fuller Murray | Art's Discipline | Long since I came into the school of Art,
A child in works, but not a child in heart.
Slowly I learn, by her instruction mild,
To be in works a man, in heart a child. | Long since I came into the school of Art, | A child in works, but not a child in heart.
Slowly I learn, by her instruction mild,
To be in works a man, in heart a child. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | On Love. | Love bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes my love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to pass
That long I love not any. | Love bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move | But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes my love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to pass
That long I love not any. | octave |
Helen Hunt Jackson | A Calendar Of Sonnets - December | The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes
Of water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed:
Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,
The brook its frozen architecture makes,
And under bridges white its swift way takes.
Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed
Might linger on the road; or one who deemed
His message h... | The lakes of ice gleam bluer than the lakes
Of water 'neath the summer sunshine gleamed:
Far fairer than when placidly it streamed,
The brook its frozen architecture makes, | And under bridges white its swift way takes.
Snow comes and goes as messenger who dreamed
Might linger on the road; or one who deemed
His message hostile gently for their sakes
Who listened might reveal it by degrees.
We gird against the cold of winter wind
Our loins now with mighty bands of sleep,
In longest, darkest ... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To Julia (2) | Julia, when thy Herrick dies,
Close thou up thy poet's eyes;
And his last breath, let it be
Taken in by none but thee. | Julia, when thy Herrick dies, | Close thou up thy poet's eyes;
And his last breath, let it be
Taken in by none but thee. | quatrain |
Madison Julius Cawein | Can Such Things Be? | Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet
Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom,
I listened dead within a mighty room
Of some old palace where great casements let
Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet
Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom
Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom,
The dreams of Titian ... | Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet
Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom,
I listened dead within a mighty room
Of some old palace where great casements let | Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet
Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom
Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom,
The dreams of Titian and of Tintoret.
And then, it seemed, along a corridor,
A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came,
Hurrying, yet slow ' I thought long centuries
Passed ere she entered she, I lo... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | On His Book. | The bound, almost, now of my book I see,
But yet no end of these therein, or me:
Here we begin new life, while thousands quite
Are lost, and theirs, in everlasting night. | The bound, almost, now of my book I see, | But yet no end of these therein, or me:
Here we begin new life, while thousands quite
Are lost, and theirs, in everlasting night. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Upon Blanch. Epig. | I have seen many maidens to have hair,
Both for their comely need and some to spare;
But Blanch has not so much upon her head
As to bind up her chaps when she is dead. | I have seen many maidens to have hair, | Both for their comely need and some to spare;
But Blanch has not so much upon her head
As to bind up her chaps when she is dead. | quatrain |
Michael Drayton | Sonet 22 | An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still,
Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill,
Nor giues me once but one pore minutes rest.
In me it speakes, whether I sleepe or wake,
And when by meanes to driue it out I try,
With greater torments then it me doth take,
And tortures me ... | An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still,
Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill,
Nor giues me once but one pore minutes rest. | In me it speakes, whether I sleepe or wake,
And when by meanes to driue it out I try,
With greater torments then it me doth take,
And tortures me in most extreamity.
Before my face, it layes all my dispaires,
And hasts me on vnto a suddaine death;
Now tempting me, to drown my selfe in teares,
And then in sighing to giu... | sonnet |
Richard Le Gallienne | For The Birthday Of Edgar Allan Poe | (January 19, 1909)
Poet of doom, dementia, and death,
Of beauty singing in a charnel house,
Like the lost soul of a poor moon-mad maid,
With too much loving of some lord of hell;
Doomed and disastrous spirit, to what shore
Of what dark gulf infernal art thou strayed,
Or to what spectral star of topless heaven
Art lifte... | (January 19, 1909)
Poet of doom, dementia, and death,
Of beauty singing in a charnel house,
Like the lost soul of a poor moon-mad maid,
With too much loving of some lord of hell;
Doomed and disastrous spirit, to what shore | Of what dark gulf infernal art thou strayed,
Or to what spectral star of topless heaven
Art lifted and enthroned?
The winter dark,
And the drear winter cold that welcomed thee
To a world all winter, gird with ice and storm
Thy January day - yea! the same world
Of winter and the wintry hearts of men;
And still, for all ... | free_verse |
Marietta Holley | Eighteen Sixty-Two. | I.
There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil,
Gathering large and slow;
Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil,
What are you thinking of now?
Push back the velvet curtains
That darken the lonely room,
For shadows peer out of the crimson depths,
And the statues gleam white in the gloom.
How the cannons' thunder rolls along,
And s... | I.
There's a tear in your eye, little Sybil,
Gathering large and slow;
Oh, Sybil, sweet little Sybil,
What are you thinking of now?
Push back the velvet curtains
That darken the lonely room,
For shadows peer out of the crimson depths,
And the statues gleam white in the gloom.
How the cannons' thunder rolls along,
And s... | The fire has a ruddy glow
That streams like a beacon down the path,
To the dusky valley below.
There is smiling hope on the pretty face
Pressed so close to the pane,
And her eyes are like blue violets
After a summer rain.
III.
How you tremble, little Sybil,
At the cannons' dreadful sound,
Did you see far away, the fall... | free_verse |
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop | To G. P. L. | We see the sky, - we love it day by day;
We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging;
We meet with souls tender as tints in May:
For these large ecstasies what are we bringing?
There is no price, best friend, for greatest meed.
Laid on the altar of our true affection,
Wild flowers of love for me must intercede:
A... | We see the sky, - we love it day by day;
We feel the wind of Spring, from blossoms winging; | We meet with souls tender as tints in May:
For these large ecstasies what are we bringing?
There is no price, best friend, for greatest meed.
Laid on the altar of our true affection,
Wild flowers of love for me must intercede:
And lo! I win your unexcelled protection. | octave |
John Milton Hay | Good And Bad Luck. Translations. After Heine. | Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
Long in one place she will not stay;
Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
Kisses you quick and flies away.
But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
And stays, - no fancy has she for flitting, -
Snatches of true love-songs she hums,
And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. | Good luck is the gayest of all gay girls,
Long in one place she will not stay; | Back from your brow she strokes the curls,
Kisses you quick and flies away.
But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes
And stays, - no fancy has she for flitting, -
Snatches of true love-songs she hums,
And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. | octave |
Robert William Service | Home and Love | Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I'm sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love.
Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
Which of the tw... | Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I'm sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love. | Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
Which of the two were best to gain;
Home without Love is bitterness;
Love without Home is often pain.
No! each alone will seldom do;
Somehow they travel hand and glove:
If you win one you must have two,
Both Home and Love.
And if you've both, well then I'm sure
You ought to sing t... | free_verse |
Edward Smyth Jones | A Bouquet | A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part -
The emblem of my wooing heart! | A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
Make all there is in love so true. | 'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part -
The emblem of my wooing heart! | octave |
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper | Only A Word. | Till our world, so sad and weary,
Finds the balmy rest of peace -
Peace to silence all her discords -
Peace till war and crime shall cease.
Peace to fall like gentle showers,
Or on parch'd flowers dew,
Till our hearts proclaim with gladness:
Lo, He maketh all things new. | Till our world, so sad and weary,
Finds the balmy rest of peace - | Peace to silence all her discords -
Peace till war and crime shall cease.
Peace to fall like gentle showers,
Or on parch'd flowers dew,
Till our hearts proclaim with gladness:
Lo, He maketh all things new. | octave |
Charlotte Bronte | Apostasy. | This last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
Wring one repentant moan.
Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
I duly bent the knee,
And praye... | This last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
Wring one repentant moan.
Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
I duly bent the knee,
And praye... | To turn thee from the path of crime,
Back to the Church's pale."
And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell
What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
Where my loved Walter lies?
And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit pant
No more for what is past?
Pr... | free_verse |
John Clare | Song | I wish I was where I would be,
With love alone to dwell,
Was I but her or she but me,
Then love would all be well.
I wish to send my thoughts to her
As quick as thoughts can fly,
But as the winds the waters stir
The mirrors change and fly. | I wish I was where I would be,
With love alone to dwell, | Was I but her or she but me,
Then love would all be well.
I wish to send my thoughts to her
As quick as thoughts can fly,
But as the winds the waters stir
The mirrors change and fly. | octave |
Charles Baudelaire | To A Woman Of Malabar | Your feet are as slender as hands, your hips, to me,
wide enough for the sweetest white girl's envy:
to the wise artist your body is sweet and dear,
and your great velvet eyes black without peer.
In the hot blue lands where God gave you your nature
your task is to light a pipe for your master,
to fill up the vessels wi... | Your feet are as slender as hands, your hips, to me,
wide enough for the sweetest white girl's envy:
to the wise artist your body is sweet and dear,
and your great velvet eyes black without peer.
In the hot blue lands where God gave you your nature
your task is to light a pipe for your master,
to fill up the vessels wi... | fetch bananas and pineapples from the bazaar.
All day your bare feet go where they wish
as you hum old lost melodies under your breath,
and when evening's red cloak descends overhead
you lie down sweetly on a straw bed,
where humming birds fill your floating dreams,
as graceful and flowery as you it seems.
Happy child,... | free_verse |
William Shakespeare | The Sonnets CXLVIII - O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head | O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight;
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is no... | O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight;
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright? | If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O! how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself se... | sonnet |
A. R. Ammons | Rivulose | You think the ridge hills flowing, breaking
with ups and downs will, though,
building constancy into the black foreground
for each sunset, hold on to you, if dreams
wander, give reality recurrence enough to keep
an image clear, but then you realize, time
going on, that time's residual like the last
ice age's cool still... | You think the ridge hills flowing, breaking
with ups and downs will, though,
building constancy into the black foreground
for each sunset, hold on to you, if dreams | wander, give reality recurrence enough to keep
an image clear, but then you realize, time
going on, that time's residual like the last
ice age's cool still in the rocks, averaged
maybe with the cool of the age before, that
not only are you not being held onto but where
else could time do so well without you,
what is yo... | free_verse |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Cancelled Stanza Of The Mask Of Anarchy. | From the cities where from caves,
Like the dead from putrid graves,
Troops of starvelings gliding come,
Living Tenants of a tomb. | From the cities where from caves, | Like the dead from putrid graves,
Troops of starvelings gliding come,
Living Tenants of a tomb. | quatrain |
John Clare | Written In Autumn. | Checq'd Autumn, doubly sweet is thy declining,
To meditate within this 'wilder'd shade;
To view the wood in its pied lustre shining,
And catch thy varied beauties as they fade;
Where o'er broad hazel-leaves thy pencil mellows,
Red as the glow that morning's opening warms,
And ash or maple 'neath thy colour yellows,
Rob... | Checq'd Autumn, doubly sweet is thy declining,
To meditate within this 'wilder'd shade;
To view the wood in its pied lustre shining,
And catch thy varied beauties as they fade; | Where o'er broad hazel-leaves thy pencil mellows,
Red as the glow that morning's opening warms,
And ash or maple 'neath thy colour yellows,
Robbing some sunbeam of its setting charms:
I would say much of what now meets my eye,
But beauties lose me in variety.
O for the warmth of soul and 'witching measure,
Expressing s... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Cuffe. Epig. | Cuffe comes to church much: but he keeps his bed
Those Sundays only whenas briefs are read.
This makes Cuffe dull; and troubles him the most,
Because he cannot sleep i' th' church free cost. | Cuffe comes to church much: but he keeps his bed | Those Sundays only whenas briefs are read.
This makes Cuffe dull; and troubles him the most,
Because he cannot sleep i' th' church free cost. | quatrain |
Charles Baudelaire | The Lid | Whatever place he goes, on land or sea,
under a sky on fire, or a polar sun,
servant of Jesus, follower of Cytherea,
shadowy beggar, or Croesus the glittering one,
city-dweller or rustic, traveller or sedentary,
whether his tiny brain works fast or slow,
everywhere man knows the terror of mystery,
and with a trembling ... | Whatever place he goes, on land or sea,
under a sky on fire, or a polar sun,
servant of Jesus, follower of Cytherea,
shadowy beggar, or Croesus the glittering one, | city-dweller or rustic, traveller or sedentary,
whether his tiny brain works fast or slow,
everywhere man knows the terror of mystery,
and with a trembling eye looks high or low.
Above, the Sky! That burial vault that stifles,
a ceiling lit for a comic opera, blind walls,
where each actor treads a blood-drenched stage:... | sonnet |
Edgar Allan Poe | Sonnet - To Zante | Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more, no more upon thy ... | Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake! | How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more, no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more,
Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-ename... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon One Lily, Who Married With A Maid Called Rose. | What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows,
Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose!
What next is look'd for? but we all should see
To spring from thee a sweet posterity. | What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows, | Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose!
What next is look'd for? but we all should see
To spring from thee a sweet posterity. | quatrain |
Friedrich Schiller | To Proselytizers. | "Give me only a fragment of earth beyond the earth's limits,"
So the godlike man said, "and I will move it with ease."
Only give me permission to leave myself for one moment,
And without any delay I will engage to be yours. | "Give me only a fragment of earth beyond the earth's limits," | So the godlike man said, "and I will move it with ease."
Only give me permission to leave myself for one moment,
And without any delay I will engage to be yours. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Upon Gander. Epig. | Since Gander did his pretty youngling wed,
Gander, they say, doth each night piss a-bed:
What is the cause? Why, Gander will reply,
No goose lays good eggs that is trodden dry. | Since Gander did his pretty youngling wed, | Gander, they say, doth each night piss a-bed:
What is the cause? Why, Gander will reply,
No goose lays good eggs that is trodden dry. | quatrain |
Wallace Irwin | Grain Of Salt, A | Of all the wimming doubly blest
The sailor's wife's the happiest,
For all she does is stay to home
And knit and darn, and let 'im roam.
Of all the husbands on the earth
The sailor has the finest berth,
For in 'is cabin he can sit
And sail and sail, and let 'er knit. | Of all the wimming doubly blest
The sailor's wife's the happiest, | For all she does is stay to home
And knit and darn, and let 'im roam.
Of all the husbands on the earth
The sailor has the finest berth,
For in 'is cabin he can sit
And sail and sail, and let 'er knit. | octave |
Morris Rosenfeld | The Canary | The free canary warbles
In leafy forest dell:
Who feels what rapture thrills her,
And who her joy can tell?
The sweet canary warbles
Where wealth and splendor dwell:
Who knows what sorrow moves her,
And who her pain can tell? | The free canary warbles
In leafy forest dell: | Who feels what rapture thrills her,
And who her joy can tell?
The sweet canary warbles
Where wealth and splendor dwell:
Who knows what sorrow moves her,
And who her pain can tell? | octave |
Emma Lazarus | Life And Art. | Not while the fever of the blood is strong,
The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less
With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless
The poet-soul to help and soothe with song.
Not then she bids his trembling lips express
The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and b... | Not while the fever of the blood is strong,
The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less
With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless
The poet-soul to help and soothe with song. | Not then she bids his trembling lips express
The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain
One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.
But when the dream is done, the pulses fail,
The day's illusion, with the day's sun set,
He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale
Divine Con... | sonnet |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Aspiration. | We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.
The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king. | We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise; | And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.
The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king. | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. D. Natural History. | Pit, Pat, well-a-day,
Little Robin flew away;
Where can little Robin be?
Gone into the cherry tree. | Pit, Pat, well-a-day, | Little Robin flew away;
Where can little Robin be?
Gone into the cherry tree. | quatrain |
John Frederick Freeman | Walking At Eve | Walking at eve I met a little child
Running beside a tragic-featured dame,
Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!"
And seemed by sharp caprice froward and mild.
Scarce heeding her the sweet one ran, beguiled
By the lit street, and his eyes too aflame;
Only, at whiles, into his eyes there came
Bewilderment ... | Walking at eve I met a little child
Running beside a tragic-featured dame,
Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!"
And seemed by sharp caprice froward and mild. | Scarce heeding her the sweet one ran, beguiled
By the lit street, and his eyes too aflame;
Only, at whiles, into his eyes there came
Bewilderment and grief with terror wild.
So, Beauty, dost thou run with tragic life;
So, with the curious world's caress enchanted,
Even of ill things thine ecstasy dost make;
Yet at the ... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Song | O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
Though your tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes
Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one!
Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
By your sad, reproving eyes,
Your sor... | O praise me not with your lips, dear one!
Though your tender words I prize.
But dearer by far is the soulful gaze
Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes
Your tender, loving eyes.
O chide me not with your lips, dear one! | Though I cause your bosom sighs.
You can make repentance deeper far
By your sad, reproving eyes,
Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.
Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds;
Above, in the beaming skies,
The constant stars say never a word,
But only smile with their eyes -
Smile on with their lustrous eyes.
Then breathe n... | free_verse |
William Allingham | The Abbot Of Innisfallen | The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfu... | The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfu... | It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could never ti... | free_verse |
Rupert Brooke | The Wayfarers | Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace;
The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I'll remember! but . . . each crawling day
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
Dull the dea... | Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace;
The long road then, unlit by your faint smile. | Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I'll remember! but . . . each crawling day
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.
. . . Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere,
The desert's edge, last of the lands we know,
Some gaunt eventual limit of our light... | sonnet |
Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny) | Sonnet. | But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence; all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh! to be free
But for a while fro... | But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file | Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence; all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh! to be free
But for a while from conscious entity!
To shut the banging doors and windows wide,
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide
Darkly and stilly, for a little space,
Gathering its strength up to pursue... | sonnet |
Henry Kendall | The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door | The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane;
There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain.
The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet
The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat!
Now, fan-wise from the ruddy f... | The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane;
There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain.
The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet
The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat!
Now, fan-wise from the ruddy f... | But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears,
Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years!
And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more,
While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
While, streaming down the... | free_verse |
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