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John Keats | To Ailsa Rock | Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer by thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid?
How long is't since the mighty Power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when gr... | Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Give answer by thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams!
When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid? | How long is't since the mighty Power bid
Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid.
Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep;
Thy life is but two dead eternities,
The last in air, the former in the deep;
First with the whales, las... | sonnet |
Oliver Herford | Charles W. Eliot | And now comes Dr. Eliot stating
That Hell won't bear investigating.
It looks like Charlie's out to bust
The Great Hell-Fire Insurance Trust. | And now comes Dr. Eliot stating | That Hell won't bear investigating.
It looks like Charlie's out to bust
The Great Hell-Fire Insurance Trust. | quatrain |
Christina Georgina Rossetti | Another Spring | If I might see another Spring
I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
I'd have my crocuses at once,
My leafless pink mezereons,
My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet
My white or azure violet,
Leaf-nested primrose; anything
To blow at once, not late.
If I might see another Spring
I'd listen to the daylight birds
That bu... | If I might see another Spring
I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
I'd have my crocuses at once,
My leafless pink mezereons,
My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet
My white or azure violet,
Leaf-nested primrose; anything
To blow at once, not late. | If I might see another Spring
I'd listen to the daylight birds
That build their nests and pair and sing,
Nor wait for mateless nightingale;
I'd listen to the lusty herds,
The ewes with lambs as white as snow,
I'd find out music in the hail
And all the winds that blow.
If I might see another Spring--
Oh stinging comment... | free_verse |
William Ernest Henley | In Hospital - IV - Before | Behold me waiting - waiting for the knife.
A little while, and at a leap I storm
The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,
The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
No innocent child, to think of as I near
The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
Unmans me for my bout of pass... | Behold me waiting - waiting for the knife.
A little while, and at a leap I storm
The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,
The drunken dark, the little death-in-life. | The gods are good to me: I have no wife,
No innocent child, to think of as I near
The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.
Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick,
And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
Here comes the ba... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Helen Of Troy On The Isle Of Cranae | The world an abject vassal to her charms,
And kings competing for a single smile,
Yet love she knew not, till upon this isle
She gave surrender to abducting arms.
Not Theseus, who plucked her lips' first kiss,
Not Menelaus, lawful mate and spouse,
Such answering passion in her heart could rouse,
Or wake such tumult in ... | The world an abject vassal to her charms,
And kings competing for a single smile,
Yet love she knew not, till upon this isle
She gave surrender to abducting arms. | Not Theseus, who plucked her lips' first kiss,
Not Menelaus, lawful mate and spouse,
Such answering passion in her heart could rouse,
Or wake such tumult in her soul as this.
Let come what will, let Greece and Asia meet,
Let heroes die and kingdoms run with gore;
Let devastation spread from shore to shore -
Resplenden... | sonnet |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Love | A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn.
Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam'st and taught m... | A life was mine full of the close concern
Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast;
Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past.
A present came equipped with lore to learn. | Art, science, letters, in their turn,
Each one allured me with its treasures vast;
And I staked all for wisdom, till at last
Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn.
I had not dreamed that I could turn away
From all that men with brush and pen had wrought;
But ever since that memorable day
When to my heart the tru... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | A Vow To Venus | Happily I had a sight
Of my dearest dear last night;
Make her this day smile on me,
And I'll roses give to thee! | Happily I had a sight | Of my dearest dear last night;
Make her this day smile on me,
And I'll roses give to thee! | quatrain |
Jean de La Fontaine | The Words Of Socrates. | [1]
A house was built by Socrates
That failed the public taste to please.
Some blamed the inside; some, the out; and all
Agreed that the apartments were too small.
Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece!
'I ask,' said he, 'no greater bliss
Than real friends to fill e'en this.'
And reason had good Socrates
To t... | [1]
A house was built by Socrates
That failed the public taste to please.
Some blamed the inside; some, the out; and all | Agreed that the apartments were too small.
Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece!
'I ask,' said he, 'no greater bliss
Than real friends to fill e'en this.'
And reason had good Socrates
To think his house too large for these.
A crowd to be your friends will claim,
Till some unhandsome test you bring.
There's n... | sonnet |
Madison Julius Cawein | The Creek-Road | Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.
It is a page whereon the sun and dew
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,
Dissect each scent and a... | Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach
Of water sings by sycamore and beech,
In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few. | It is a page whereon the sun and dew
Scrawl sparkling words in dawn's delicious speech;
A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,
Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.
Not otherwise than beautiful, doth it
Record the happ'nings of each summer day;
Where we may read, as in a catalogue,
When passed a thresher; when a l... | sonnet |
Eric Mackay | A Hero. | The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, -
How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die.
Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry;
His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
When he survives to serve his Land aright
And mak... | The warrior knows how fitful is the fight, -
How sad to live, - how sweet perchance to die.
Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height,
And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry; | His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.
Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight,
When he survives to serve his Land aright
And make his fame the watchword of the sky.
In all our hopes his love is with us still;
He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.
His acts are just; his word we must believe,
And n... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | The Bell-Man | Along the dark and silent night,
With my lantern and my light
And the tinkling of my bell,
Thus I walk, and this I tell:
Death and dreadfulness call on
To the general session;
To whose dismal bar, we there
All accounts must come to clear:
Scores of sins we've made here many;
Wiped out few, God knows, if any.
Rise, ye d... | Along the dark and silent night,
With my lantern and my light
And the tinkling of my bell,
Thus I walk, and this I tell: | Death and dreadfulness call on
To the general session;
To whose dismal bar, we there
All accounts must come to clear:
Scores of sins we've made here many;
Wiped out few, God knows, if any.
Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall
To make payment, while I call:
Ponder this, when I am gone:
By the clock 'tis almost One. | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Obedience. | The power of princes rests in the consent
Of only those who are obedient:
Which if away, proud sceptres then will lie
Low, and of thrones the ancient majesty. | The power of princes rests in the consent | Of only those who are obedient:
Which if away, proud sceptres then will lie
Low, and of thrones the ancient majesty. | quatrain |
Unknown | Success | I'd rather be a Could Be
If I could not be an Are;
For a Could Be is a May Be,
With a chance of touching par.
I'd rather be a Has Been
Than a Might Have Been, by far;
For a Might Have Been has never been,
But a Has was once an Are. | I'd rather be a Could Be
If I could not be an Are; | For a Could Be is a May Be,
With a chance of touching par.
I'd rather be a Has Been
Than a Might Have Been, by far;
For a Might Have Been has never been,
But a Has was once an Are. | octave |
James Whitcomb Riley | Go, Winter! | Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again
The twitter of the bluebird and the wren;
Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine
Of Summer's sun - not thine. -
Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love
And all the heartening fervencies thereof,
It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin
Pathetic yearnings in.
S... | Go, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again
The twitter of the bluebird and the wren;
Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine
Of Summer's sun - not thine. -
Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love | And all the heartening fervencies thereof,
It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin
Pathetic yearnings in.
So get thee from us! We are cold, God wot,
Even as thou art. - We remember not
How blithe we hailed thy coming. - That was O
Too long - too long ago!
Get from us utterly! Ho! Summer then
Shall spread her... | free_verse |
Jonathan Swift | The Hardship Upon The Ladies | Poor ladies! though their business be to play,
'Tis hard they must be busy night and day:
Why should they want the privilege of men,
Nor take some small diversions now and then?
Had women been the makers of our laws,
(And why they were not, I can see no cause,)
The men should slave at cards from morn to night
And femal... | Poor ladies! though their business be to play,
'Tis hard they must be busy night and day: | Why should they want the privilege of men,
Nor take some small diversions now and then?
Had women been the makers of our laws,
(And why they were not, I can see no cause,)
The men should slave at cards from morn to night
And female pleasures be to read and write. | octave |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | Sonnet for a Picture | That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,
She pants upon the passionate lips that ache
With the red drain of her own mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp,
One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp.
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake
Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.
The lock his finge... | That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,
She pants upon the passionate lips that ache
With the red drain of her own mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp, | One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp.
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake
Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.
The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.
The legs are absolutely abominable.
Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes
Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?
Nay! Death sets rid... | sonnet |
Rudyard Kipling | The Houses | 'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house, kin cleaving to kind;
If my ho... | 'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate. | For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house, kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no gre... | sonnet |
Robert Burns | On A Country Laird. | Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone
But body too, must rise:
For had he said, "the soul alone
From death I will deliver;"
Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then thou hadst slept for ever. | Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes, | Who said that not the soul alone
But body too, must rise:
For had he said, "the soul alone
From death I will deliver;"
Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then thou hadst slept for ever. | octave |
George MacDonald | Triolet | Oh that men would praise the Lord
For his goodness unto men!
Forth he sends his saving word,
--Oh that men would praise the Lord!--
And from shades of death abhorred
Lifts them up to light again:
Oh that men would praise the Lord
For his goodness unto men! | Oh that men would praise the Lord
For his goodness unto men! | Forth he sends his saving word,
--Oh that men would praise the Lord!--
And from shades of death abhorred
Lifts them up to light again:
Oh that men would praise the Lord
For his goodness unto men! | octave |
Robert Burns | Written On A Pane Of Glass, In The Inn At Moffat. | Ask why God made the gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it. | Ask why God made the gem so small, | And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | As By The Dead We Love To Sit, | As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear,
As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, --
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes! | As by the dead we love to sit,
Become so wondrous dear, | As for the lost we grapple,
Though all the rest are here, --
In broken mathematics
We estimate our prize,
Vast, in its fading ratio,
To our penurious eyes! | octave |
Rudyard Kipling | The Idiot Boy | He wandered down the moutain grade
Beyond the speed assigned,
A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.
He went alone, that none might know
If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
The differential gear! | He wandered down the moutain grade
Beyond the speed assigned, | A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.
He went alone, that none might know
If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
The differential gear! | octave |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment Of A Sonnet. To Harriet. | Ever as now with Love and Virtue's glow
May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn,
Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o'erflow
Which force from mine such quick and warm return.
| Ever as now with Love and Virtue's glow | May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn,
Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o'erflow
Which force from mine such quick and warm return. | quatrain |
Siegfried Loraine Sassoon | Dreamers | Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They thin... | Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. | Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and ba... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | Upon Skoles. Epig. | Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath
His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe;
Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast
Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last. | Skoles stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath | His dampish buttocks furthermore to clothe;
Cloy'd they are up with arse; but hope, one blast
Will whirl about, and blow them thence at last. | quatrain |
Anna Seward | Sonnet XI. | How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd,
In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide
Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;
To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield,
That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field,
And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy side
The Mountain-Bees their fragrant treasure hi... | How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd,
In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tide
Of wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;
To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield, | That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field,
And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy side
The Mountain-Bees their fragrant treasure hide
Murmuring; and sings the lonely Thrush conceal'd! -
Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls,
Where forc'd and frivolous the themes arise,
With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how palls
At th... | sonnet |
Walter Savage Landor | Man | In his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O man!
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark'd with shade! | In his own image the Creator made, | His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O man!
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever mark'd with shade! | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DLXXIV. Natural History. | Hurly, burly, trumpet trase,
The cow was in the market place,
Some goes far, and some goes near,
But where shall this poor henchman steer? | Hurly, burly, trumpet trase, | The cow was in the market place,
Some goes far, and some goes near,
But where shall this poor henchman steer? | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXXXIII. Lullabies. | Dance to your daddy,
My little babby,
Dance to your daddy;
My little lamb.
You shall have a fishy,
In a little dishy;
You shall have a fishy
When the boat comes in. | Dance to your daddy,
My little babby, | Dance to your daddy;
My little lamb.
You shall have a fishy,
In a little dishy;
You shall have a fishy
When the boat comes in. | octave |
John Dryden | Epilogue For "The King's House."[1] | We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those who call us wicked change their sense;
For never men lived more on Providence.
Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,
Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last... | We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
But just peep up, and then pop down again.
Let those who call us wicked change their sense;
For never men lived more on Providence.
Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,
Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last... | Was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth:
Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.
'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor;
For then the printer's press would suffer more.
Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit;
They thrive by treason, and we sta... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Distrust. | To safeguard man from wrongs, there nothing must
Be truer to him than a wise distrust.
And to thyself be best this sentence known:
Hear all men speak, but credit few or none. | To safeguard man from wrongs, there nothing must | Be truer to him than a wise distrust.
And to thyself be best this sentence known:
Hear all men speak, but credit few or none. | quatrain |
William Ernest Henley | In Hospital - X - Staff-Nurse: New Style | Blue-eyed and bright of face but waning fast
Into the sere of virginal decay,
I view her as she enters, day by day,
As a sweet sunset almost overpast.
Kindly and calm, patrician to the last,
Superbly falls her gown of sober gray,
And on her chignon's elegant array
The plainest cap is somehow touched with caste.
She tal... | Blue-eyed and bright of face but waning fast
Into the sere of virginal decay,
I view her as she enters, day by day,
As a sweet sunset almost overpast. | Kindly and calm, patrician to the last,
Superbly falls her gown of sober gray,
And on her chignon's elegant array
The plainest cap is somehow touched with caste.
She talks BEETHOVEN; frowns disapprobation
At BALZAC'S name, sighs it at 'poor GEORGE SAND'S';
Knows that she has exceeding pretty hands;
Speaks Latin with a ... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXIV. Love And Matrimony. | Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,[*]
They were two bonny lasses:
They built their house upon the lea,
And covered it with rashes.
Bessy kept the garden gate,
And Mary kept the pantry:
Bessy always had to wait,
While Mary lived in plenty. | Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,[*]
They were two bonny lasses: | They built their house upon the lea,
And covered it with rashes.
Bessy kept the garden gate,
And Mary kept the pantry:
Bessy always had to wait,
While Mary lived in plenty. | octave |
William Wordsworth | To The Same | (Ode to Lycoris. May 1817)
Enough of climbing toil! Ambition treads
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
As we for most uncertain recompence
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds,
Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
Induces, for its old familiar si... | (Ode to Lycoris. May 1817)
Enough of climbing toil! Ambition treads
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step,
As we for most uncertain recompence
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds,
Each weary step, dwarfing the world below,
Induces, for its old familiar si... | As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze,
Ocean and Earth contending for regard.
The umbrageous woods are left, how far beneath!
But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth
Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed
With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still
And sultry air, depending motionless.
Yet cool the ... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCLI. Charms. | Hickup, snicup,
Rise up, right up!
Three drops in the cup
Are good for the hiccup. | Hickup, snicup, | Rise up, right up!
Three drops in the cup
Are good for the hiccup. | quatrain |
Oliver Herford | Hafiz | When Hafiz saw the portrait free,
By Monty Flagg, of him and me,
He made remarks one can't repeat
In any reputable sheet. | When Hafiz saw the portrait free, | By Monty Flagg, of him and me,
He made remarks one can't repeat
In any reputable sheet. | quatrain |
Dante Alighieri | The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Purgatory: Canto XVII | Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er
Hast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud,
Through which thou saw'st no better, than the mole
Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene'er
The wat'ry vapours dense began to melt
Into thin air, how faintly the sun's sphere
Seem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thought
Ma... | Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e'er
Hast, on a mountain top, been ta'en by cloud,
Through which thou saw'st no better, than the mole
Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene'er
The wat'ry vapours dense began to melt
Into thin air, how faintly the sun's sphere
Seem'd wading through them; so thy nimble thought
Ma... | As round I turn'd me to survey what place
I had arriv'd at, "Here ye mount," exclaim'd
A voice, that other purpose left me none,
Save will so eager to behold who spake,
I could not choose but gaze. As 'fore the sun,
That weighs our vision down, and veils his form
In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail'd
Unequal. "T... | free_verse |
Michael Drayton | Sonnet 8 | There's nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste,
That in my dayes I may not see thee old,
That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac'd,
Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold.
That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish'd Brow,
Defac'd with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
Thy daintie Hayre, so curl'd, and cr... | There's nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste,
That in my dayes I may not see thee old,
That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac'd,
Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold. | That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish'd Brow,
Defac'd with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
Thy daintie Hayre, so curl'd, and crisped now,
Like grizzled Mosse vpon some aged Tree;
Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,
Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne,
Thy Pearly teeth out of thy head so cleane,
That ... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XV. - At The Convent Of Camaldoli | Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,
And seeking consolation from above;
Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left
To paint this picture of his lady-love:
Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?
And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing
So fair, to which with peril he must cling,
Destroy in pity, or wit... | Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,
And seeking consolation from above;
Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left
To paint this picture of his lady-love: | Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?
And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing
So fair, to which with peril he must cling,
Destroy in pity, or with care remove.
That bloom, those eyes, can they assist to bind
Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The dream must cease
To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must l... | sonnet |
Walter Savage Landor | Autumn | Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all. | Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray; | Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all. | octave |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: 'And That I Walk Thus Proudly Crowned'. | And that I walk thus proudly crowned withal
Is that 'tis my distinction; if I fall,
I shall not weep out of the vital day,
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay. | And that I walk thus proudly crowned withal | Is that 'tis my distinction; if I fall,
I shall not weep out of the vital day,
To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay. | quatrain |
Emily Bronte | Stars. | Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our Earth to joy,
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?
All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And, with a full heart's thankful sighs,
I blessed that watch divine.
I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me;
And re... | Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our Earth to joy,
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?
All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And, with a full heart's thankful sighs,
I blessed that watch divine.
I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me;
And re... | Why did the morning dawn to break
So great, so pure, a spell;
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,
Where your cool radiance fell?
Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,
His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of nature sprang, elate,
But mine sank sad and low!
My lids closed down, yet through their veil
I saw h... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | To Cedars. | If 'mongst my many poems I can see
One only worthy to be wash'd by thee,
I live for ever, let the rest all lie
In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die. | If 'mongst my many poems I can see | One only worthy to be wash'd by thee,
I live for ever, let the rest all lie
In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die. | quatrain |
William Wordsworth | Surprised By Joy - Impatient As The Wind | Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so... | Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find? | Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my h... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XVII - Places Of Worship | As star that shines dependent upon star
Is to the sky while we look up and love;
As to the deep fair ships which though they move
Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from afar;
As to the sandy desert fountains are,
With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals,
Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls
Of roving tired ... | As star that shines dependent upon star
Is to the sky while we look up and love;
As to the deep fair ships which though they move
Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from afar; | As to the sandy desert fountains are,
With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals,
Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls
Of roving tired or desultory war
Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes,
Each linked to each for kindred services;
Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes
Far-kenned, her Ch... | sonnet |
Richard Le Gallienne | Lightnings May Flicker Round My Head | Lightnings may flicker round my head,
And all the world seem doom,
If you, like a wild rose, will walk
Strangely into the room.
If only my sad heart may hear
Your voice of faery laughter -
What matters though the heavens fall,
And hell come thundering after. | Lightnings may flicker round my head,
And all the world seem doom, | If you, like a wild rose, will walk
Strangely into the room.
If only my sad heart may hear
Your voice of faery laughter -
What matters though the heavens fall,
And hell come thundering after. | octave |
Henry Kendall | Black Kate | Kate, they say, is seventeen
Do not count her sweet, you know.
Arms of her are rather lean
Ditto, calves and feet, you know.
Features of Hellenic type
Are not patent here, you see.
Katie loves a black clay pipe
Doesn't hate her beer, you see.
Spartan Helen used to wear
Tresses in a plait, perhaps:
Kate has ochre in her... | Kate, they say, is seventeen
Do not count her sweet, you know.
Arms of her are rather lean
Ditto, calves and feet, you know.
Features of Hellenic type
Are not patent here, you see.
Katie loves a black clay pipe
Doesn't hate her beer, you see.
Spartan Helen used to wear
Tresses in a plait, perhaps:
Kate has ochre in her... | Smith, and Brown, and Jenkins, bring
Roses to the fair, you know.
Darkies at their Katie fling
Hunks of native bear, you know.
English girls examine well
All the food they take, you twig:
Kate is hardly keen of smell
Kate will eat a snake, you twig.
Yonder lady's sitting room
Clean and cool and dark it is:
Kitty's cham... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Fone A Schoolmaster. Epig. | Fone says, those mighty whiskers he does wear
Are twigs of birch, and willow, growing there:
If so, we'll think too, when he does condemn
Boys to the lash, that he does whip with them. | Fone says, those mighty whiskers he does wear | Are twigs of birch, and willow, growing there:
If so, we'll think too, when he does condemn
Boys to the lash, that he does whip with them. | quatrain |
William Butler Yeats | A Crazed Girl | That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster... | That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where, | Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible ... | sonnet |
Walter Savage Landor | Well I Remember How You Smiled | Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand... "O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!"
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again. | Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon | The soft sea-sand... "O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!"
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again. | octave |
Eric Mackay | Byron. | He was a god descended from the skies
To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
And consecrate a hope he could not save;
For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.
Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
But all do pity him, though none despise.
He was a prince of son... | He was a god descended from the skies
To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
And consecrate a hope he could not save;
For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise. | Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
But all do pity him, though none despise.
He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.
He ask'd for tears, - and they were tinged with fire;
He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.
He look'd for solace at the goblet's bri... | sonnet |
Walter De La Mare | Autumn | There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears... | There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was. | Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was. | free_verse |
Thomas Hood | To A Sleeping Child. II. | Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd
No eyes could wake so beautiful as they:
Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay,
I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd
Of dimples: - for those parted lips so seem'd,
I never thought a smile could sweetlier play,
Nor that so graceful life could chase away
Thy grace... | Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd
No eyes could wake so beautiful as they:
Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay,
I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd | Of dimples: - for those parted lips so seem'd,
I never thought a smile could sweetlier play,
Nor that so graceful life could chase away
Thy graceful death, - till those blue eyes upbeam'd.
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown'd
And roses bloom more rosily for joy,
And odorous silence ripens into sound,
And fingers ... | sonnet |
Robert Burns | On A Celebrated Ruling Elder. | Here souter Hood in death does sleep;
To h--ll, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither. | Here souter Hood in death does sleep; | To h--ll, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither. | quatrain |
Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley | Shadow Song. | The night is long
And there are no stars, -
Let me but dream
That the long fields gleam
With sunlight and song,
Then I shall not long
For the light of stars.
Let me but dream, -
For there are no stars, -
Dream that the ache
And the wild heart-break
Are but things that seem.
Ah! let me dream
For there are no stars. | The night is long
And there are no stars, -
Let me but dream
That the long fields gleam | With sunlight and song,
Then I shall not long
For the light of stars.
Let me but dream, -
For there are no stars, -
Dream that the ache
And the wild heart-break
Are but things that seem.
Ah! let me dream
For there are no stars. | sonnet |
Alexander Pope | Occasioned By Some Verses Of His Grace The Duke Of Buckingham. | Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends,
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain,
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus be... | Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends, | Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail:
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain;
Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain,
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends. | octave |
Sara Teasdale | Dusk In War Time | A half-hour more and you will lean
To gather me close in the old sweet way
But oh, to the woman over the sea
Who will come at the close of day?
A half-hour more and I will hear
The key in the latch and the strong, quick tread
But oh, the woman over the sea
Waiting at dusk for one who is dead! | A half-hour more and you will lean
To gather me close in the old sweet way | But oh, to the woman over the sea
Who will come at the close of day?
A half-hour more and I will hear
The key in the latch and the strong, quick tread
But oh, the woman over the sea
Waiting at dusk for one who is dead! | octave |
Sidney Lanier | Marsh Hymns. - Between Dawn and Sunrise. | Were silver pink, and had a soul,
Which soul were shy, which shyness might
A visible influence be, and roll
Through heaven and earth - 'twere thou, O light!
O rhapsody of the wraith of red,
O blush but yet in prophecy,
O sun-hint that hath overspread
Sky, marsh, my soul, and yonder sail. | Were silver pink, and had a soul,
Which soul were shy, which shyness might | A visible influence be, and roll
Through heaven and earth - 'twere thou, O light!
O rhapsody of the wraith of red,
O blush but yet in prophecy,
O sun-hint that hath overspread
Sky, marsh, my soul, and yonder sail. | octave |
Thomas Hardy | How Great My Grief - (Triolet) | How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee!
- Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee? | How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee! | - Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee? | octave |
John Clare | Woman. | O Woman, lovely Woman, magic flower,
What loves, what pleasures in thy graces meet!
Thou blushing blossom, dropt from Eden's bower;
Thou fair exotic, delicately sweet!--
Thy tender beauty Mercy wrung from heaven,
A drop of honey in a world of woe;
From Wisdom's pitying hand thy sweets were given,
That man a glimpse of ... | O Woman, lovely Woman, magic flower,
What loves, what pleasures in thy graces meet!
Thou blushing blossom, dropt from Eden's bower;
Thou fair exotic, delicately sweet!-- | Thy tender beauty Mercy wrung from heaven,
A drop of honey in a world of woe;
From Wisdom's pitying hand thy sweets were given,
That man a glimpse of happiness might know.
-If destitute of Woman, what were life?
Could wealth and wine thy loveliness bestow,
And give the bliss that centres in a wife,
That makes one loth ... | sonnet |
William Cowper | Epitaph On Mrs. M. Higgins, Of Weston. | Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils div... | Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come: | Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. | octave |
Freeman Edwin Miller | Sonnet. | Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
The giant hills of doubting reach the skies,
Abiding shadows bring eternal night,
And on my ways no suns of morning rise;
Dark mysteries across the years of might
Crush down my hopes, until each yearning dies,
Until my soul is weary, dim my sight,
And ghostly echoes mock my fa... | Somehow, someway, I can not see the light;
The giant hills of doubting reach the skies,
Abiding shadows bring eternal night,
And on my ways no suns of morning rise; | Dark mysteries across the years of might
Crush down my hopes, until each yearning dies,
Until my soul is weary, dim my sight,
And ghostly echoes mock my fainting cries.
Ah, I shall know beyond these narrow years,
The glorious mornings of eternal day,
Where perfect love and tender trust shall play,
And smiles and laught... | sonnet |
Thomas Campbell | Hope | At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And ro... | At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, | Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Autumn. | The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on. | The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown; | The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on. | octave |
Robert Herrick | None Truly Happy Here. | Happy's that man to whom God gives
A stock of goods, whereby he lives
Near to the wishes of his heart:
No man is blest through every part. | Happy's that man to whom God gives | A stock of goods, whereby he lives
Near to the wishes of his heart:
No man is blest through every part. | quatrain |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Fragment: Rain. | The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere. | The fitful alternations of the rain, | When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere. | quatrain |
Sara Teasdale | Love Me | Brown-thrush singing all day long
In the leaves above me,
Take my love this April song,
"Love me, love me, love me!"
When he harkens what you say,
Bid him, lest he miss me,
Leave his work or leave his play,
And kiss me, kiss me, kiss me! | Brown-thrush singing all day long
In the leaves above me, | Take my love this April song,
"Love me, love me, love me!"
When he harkens what you say,
Bid him, lest he miss me,
Leave his work or leave his play,
And kiss me, kiss me, kiss me! | octave |
John Keats | Sonnet XVI: To Kosciusko | Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
Of the wide spheres, an everlasting tone.
And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
Through cl... | Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
Of the wide spheres, an everlasting tone. | And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
It tells me too, that on a happy day,
When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of y... | sonnet |
Alfred Edward Housman | Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - LVII | You smile upon your friend to-day,
To-day his ills are over;
You hearken to the lover's say,
And happy is the lover.
'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,
But better late than never:
I shall have lived a little while
Before I die for ever. | You smile upon your friend to-day,
To-day his ills are over; | You hearken to the lover's say,
And happy is the lover.
'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,
But better late than never:
I shall have lived a little while
Before I die for ever. | octave |
Emily Bronte | She Dried Her Tears And They Did Smile | She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow
How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow
With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away
| She dried her tears and they did smile
To see her cheeks' returning glow | How little dreaming all the while
That full heart throbbed to overflow
With that sweet look and lively tone
And bright eye shining all the day
They could not guess at midnight lone
How she would weep the time away | octave |
Edward Dyson | Bricks | Dear Ned, I now take up my pen to write you these few lines,
And hopin' how they find you fit. Gorbli', it seems an age
Since Jumbo ducked the Port, 'n' drilled 'n' polished to the nines,
He walked his pork on Collins like a hero off the stage,
Then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin' war to wage.
The things wha... | Dear Ned, I now take up my pen to write you these few lines,
And hopin' how they find you fit. Gorbli', it seems an age
Since Jumbo ducked the Port, 'n' drilled 'n' polished to the nines,
He walked his pork on Collins like a hero off the stage,
Then hiked a rifle 'cross the sea this bleedin' war to wage.
The things wha... | We held that stinkin' cellar, though, 'n' when the day was done
Son pussied on his bingie where a Maxie trim 'n' neat
Had spit out loaded lightnin', and he slugged a tubby Hun,
Then choked a Fritzie with his dukes, 'n' pinched the sooner's gun!
We rigged her on her knuckle-bones. Cri', how she lapped 'em up!
We hosed '... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXXVIII. Natural History. | Little Robin Red-breast,
Sat upon a hirdle;
With a pair of speckled legs,
And a green girdle. | Little Robin Red-breast, | Sat upon a hirdle;
With a pair of speckled legs,
And a green girdle. | quatrain |
John Milton | Sonnets. V | Per certo i bei vostr'occhi Donna mia
Esser non puo che non fian lo mio sole
Si mi percuoton forte, come ci suole
Per l'arene di Libia chi s'invia,
Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria)
Da quel lato si spinge ove mi duole,
Che forsi amanti nelle lor parole
Chiaman sospir; io non so che si sia:
Parte rinchiusa, e turbid... | Per certo i bei vostr'occhi Donna mia
Esser non puo che non fian lo mio sole
Si mi percuoton forte, come ci suole
Per l'arene di Libia chi s'invia, | Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria)
Da quel lato si spinge ove mi duole,
Che forsi amanti nelle lor parole
Chiaman sospir; io non so che si sia:
Parte rinchiusa, e turbida si cela
Scosso mi il petto, e poi n'uscendo poco
Quivi d' attorno o s'agghiaccia, o s'ingiela;
Ma quanto a gli occhi giunge a trovar loco
Tutte le... | sonnet |
Jonathan Swift | On A Pair Of Dice | We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour. | We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain, | Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | "I Had No Time To Hate, Because" | I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me. | I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me, | And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me. | octave |
Edwin C. Ranck | Modern Maud Muller. | Maud Muller on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows, sweet with hay.
Nor was this just a grand-stand play;
Maud got a rake-off, so they say. | Maud Muller on a summer's day, | Raked the meadows, sweet with hay.
Nor was this just a grand-stand play;
Maud got a rake-off, so they say. | quatrain |
Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Desire | Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;
It is the reflex of our earthly frame,
That takes its meaning from the nobler part,
And but translates the language of the heart. | Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame; | It is the reflex of our earthly frame,
That takes its meaning from the nobler part,
And but translates the language of the heart. | quatrain |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | When I Hoped I Feared, | When I hoped I feared,
Since I hoped I dared;
Everywhere alone
As a church remain;
Spectre cannot harm,
Serpent cannot charm;
He deposes doom,
Who hath suffered him. | When I hoped I feared,
Since I hoped I dared; | Everywhere alone
As a church remain;
Spectre cannot harm,
Serpent cannot charm;
He deposes doom,
Who hath suffered him. | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXXV - Old Abbeys | Monastic Domes! following my downward way,
Untouched by due regret I marked your fall!
Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all
Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay
On our past selves in life's declining day:
For as, by discipline of Time made wise,
We learn to tolerate the infirmities
And faults of others, gently... | Monastic Domes! following my downward way,
Untouched by due regret I marked your fall!
Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all
Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay | On our past selves in life's declining day:
For as, by discipline of Time made wise,
We learn to tolerate the infirmities
And faults of others, gently as he may,
So with our own the mild Instructor deals,
Teaching us to forget them or forgive.
Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill
Why should we break Time's charitab... | sonnet |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXXXIV. Natural History. | Riddle me, riddle me, ree,
A hawk sate upon a tree;
And he says to himself, says he,
Oh dear! what a fine bird I be. | Riddle me, riddle me, ree, | A hawk sate upon a tree;
And he says to himself, says he,
Oh dear! what a fine bird I be. | quatrain |
Matthew Arnold | A Summer Night | In the deserted, moon-blanched street,
How lonely rings the echo of my feet!
Those windows, which I gaze at, frown,
Silent and white, unopening down,
Repellent as the world, but see,
A break between the housetops shows
The moon! and lost behind her, fading dim
Into the dewy dark obscurity
Down at the far horizon's rim,... | In the deserted, moon-blanched street,
How lonely rings the echo of my feet!
Those windows, which I gaze at, frown,
Silent and white, unopening down,
Repellent as the world, but see,
A break between the housetops shows
The moon! and lost behind her, fading dim
Into the dewy dark obscurity
Down at the far horizon's rim,... | But fluctuates to and fro,
Never by passion quite possessed
And never quite benumbed by the world's sway?
And I, I know not if to pray
Still to be what I am, or yield, and be
Like all the other men I see.
For most men in a brazen prison live,
Where, in the sun's hot eye,
With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly... | free_verse |
Nathaniel Parker Willis | Sonnet. | Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red
Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree,
Making thy little flights as thou art led
By things that tempt a simple one like thee -
I would that thou couldst warble me to tears
As lightly as the birds of other years.
Idly to lie beneath an April sun,
Pressing the perfume from t... | Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red
Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree,
Making thy little flights as thou art led
By things that tempt a simple one like thee - | I would that thou couldst warble me to tears
As lightly as the birds of other years.
Idly to lie beneath an April sun,
Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;
To watch a joyous rivulet leap on
With the clear tinkle of a music glass,
And as I saw the early robin pass,
To hear him thro' his little compass run -
Hath... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | His Wish To Privacy | Give me a cell
To dwell,
Where no foot hath
A path;
There will I spend,
And end,
My wearied years
In tears. | Give me a cell
To dwell, | Where no foot hath
A path;
There will I spend,
And end,
My wearied years
In tears. | octave |
Robert Herrick | God's Presence. | God's evident, and may be said to be
Present with just men, to the verity;
But with the wicked if He doth comply,
'Tis, as St. Bernard saith, but seemingly. | God's evident, and may be said to be | Present with just men, to the verity;
But with the wicked if He doth comply,
'Tis, as St. Bernard saith, but seemingly. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | The Coming Of Good Luck | So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees. | So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light, | Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees. | quatrain |
Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny) | Sonnet. | Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noo... | Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime; | Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snat... | sonnet |
Joseph Horatio Chant | God's Care | I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar,
Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore;
Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near,
With help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear?
Tho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head,
My sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead,
Thy presence will cheer me, a... | I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar,
Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore; | Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near,
With help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear?
Tho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head,
My sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead,
Thy presence will cheer me, and spectres will flee,
For who can molest me while trusting in thee? | octave |
William Shakespeare | The Sonnets XXIII - As an unperfect actor on the stage | As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with bur... | As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; | So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue... | sonnet |
William Wordsworth | By Moscow Self-Devoted To A Blaze | By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Of dreadful sacrifice, by Russian blood
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise
To rob our Human-nature of just praise
For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure
Of a deliverance absolute and pure
She gave, if Faith might tread the beate... | By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Of dreadful sacrifice, by Russian blood
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise | To rob our Human-nature of just praise
For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure
Of a deliverance absolute and pure
She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways
Of Providence. But now did the Most High
Exalt his still small voice; to quell that Host
Gathered his power, a manifest ally;
He, w... | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | When Love Was Born | When Love was born I think he lay
Right warm on Venus' breast,
And whiles he smiled and whiles would play
And whiles would take his rest.
But always, folded out of sight,
The wings were growing strong
That were to bear him off in flight
Erelong, erelong. | When Love was born I think he lay
Right warm on Venus' breast, | And whiles he smiled and whiles would play
And whiles would take his rest.
But always, folded out of sight,
The wings were growing strong
That were to bear him off in flight
Erelong, erelong. | octave |
Vachel Lindsay | Who Knows? | They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows?
They say one king is doddering and grey.
They say one king is slack and sick of mind,
A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.
Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place?
Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane?
Their place of maudlin, slavering con... | They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows?
They say one king is doddering and grey. | They say one king is slack and sick of mind,
A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.
Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place?
Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane?
Their place of maudlin, slavering conference
Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? | octave |
Robert Herrick | Confession. | Confession twofold is, as Austin says,
The first of sin is, and the next of praise.
If ill it goes with thee, thy faults confess:
If well, then chant God's praise with cheerfulness. | Confession twofold is, as Austin says, | The first of sin is, and the next of praise.
If ill it goes with thee, thy faults confess:
If well, then chant God's praise with cheerfulness. | quatrain |
Robert Herrick | Blame The Reward Of Princes. | Among disasters that dissension brings,
This not the least is, which belongs to kings:
If wars go well, each for a part lays claim;
If ill, then kings, not soldiers, bear the blame. | Among disasters that dissension brings, | This not the least is, which belongs to kings:
If wars go well, each for a part lays claim;
If ill, then kings, not soldiers, bear the blame. | quatrain |
Friedrich Schiller | Shakespeare's Ghost. A Parody. | I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,
Saw his shade. He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians,
And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended,
And th... | I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,
Saw his shade. He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians,
And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended,
And th... | Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?"
"There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely
Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad."
"Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations,
And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black."
"Ay, there i... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | Loveliness. | I.
When I fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring,
On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl buds
Embraced, two whispers we search - wandering
By goblin forests and by girlish floods
Deep in the hermit-holy solitudes -
For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring;
Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair - wild woods
Have perf... | I.
When I fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring,
On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl buds
Embraced, two whispers we search - wandering
By goblin forests and by girlish floods
Deep in the hermit-holy solitudes -
For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring;
Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair - wild woods
Have perf... | Cool-glittering; but discovered, when - alas!
From green, indented moss and plushy grass, -
Her great eyes' pansy-black reproaching, - dips
She white the cloven waters ere we pass:
And a broad, orbing ripple makes to hide
From our desirous gaze provoked what path
She gleaming took; what haunt she bashful hath
In minno... | free_verse |
Thomas Moore | To Phillis. | Phillis, you little rosy rake,
That heart of yours I long to rifle;
Come, give it me, and do not make
So much ado about a trifle! | Phillis, you little rosy rake, | That heart of yours I long to rifle;
Come, give it me, and do not make
So much ado about a trifle! | quatrain |
Walter De La Mare | Bread And Cherries | 'Cherries, ripe cherries!'
The old woman cried,
In her snowy white apron,
And basket beside;
And the little boys came,
Eyes shining, cheeks red,
To buy a bag of cherries,
To eat with their bread. | 'Cherries, ripe cherries!'
The old woman cried, | In her snowy white apron,
And basket beside;
And the little boys came,
Eyes shining, cheeks red,
To buy a bag of cherries,
To eat with their bread. | octave |
Arthur Sherburne Hardy | By A Grave | Oft have I stood within the carven door
Of some cathedral at the close of the day,
And seen its softened splendors fade away
From lucent pane and tessellated floor,
As if a parting guest who comes no more,
Till over all silence and blackness lay,
Then rose sweet murmurings of them that pray,
And shone the altar lamps ... | Oft have I stood within the carven door
Of some cathedral at the close of the day,
And seen its softened splendors fade away
From lucent pane and tessellated floor, | As if a parting guest who comes no more,
Till over all silence and blackness lay,
Then rose sweet murmurings of them that pray,
And shone the altar lamps unseen before,
So, Dear, as here I stand with thee alone,
The voices of the world sound faint and far,
The glare and glory of the moon grow dim,
And in the stillness... | sonnet |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Day | The gray dawn on the mountain top
Is slow to pass away.
Still lays him by in sluggish dreams,
The golden God of day.
And then a light along the hills,
Your laughter silvery gay;
The Sun God wakes, a bluebird trills,
You come and it is day. | The gray dawn on the mountain top
Is slow to pass away. | Still lays him by in sluggish dreams,
The golden God of day.
And then a light along the hills,
Your laughter silvery gay;
The Sun God wakes, a bluebird trills,
You come and it is day. | octave |
George MacDonald | Triolet | Few in joy's sweet riot
Able are to listen:
Thou, to make me quiet,
Quenchest the sweet riot,
Tak'st away my diet,
Puttest me in prison--
Quenchest joy's sweet riot
That the heart may listen. | Few in joy's sweet riot
Able are to listen: | Thou, to make me quiet,
Quenchest the sweet riot,
Tak'st away my diet,
Puttest me in prison--
Quenchest joy's sweet riot
That the heart may listen. | octave |
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