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Christina Georgina Rossetti | Why? | Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,
Why need I any more these toilsome days;
Why should I not run singing up Thy ways
Straight into heaven, to rest myself with Thee?
What need remains of death-pang yet to be,
If all my soul is quickened in Thy praise;
If all my heart loves Thee, what need the amaze,
Struggle and d... | Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,
Why need I any more these toilsome days;
Why should I not run singing up Thy ways
Straight into heaven, to rest myself with Thee? | What need remains of death-pang yet to be,
If all my soul is quickened in Thy praise;
If all my heart loves Thee, what need the amaze,
Struggle and dimness of an agony? -
Bride whom I love, if thou too lovest Me,
Thou needs must choose My Likeness for thy dower:
So wilt thou toil in patience, and abide
Hungering and th... | sonnet |
Henry Kendall | Dante and Virgil | When lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale
Of love and sin and boundless agony,
While that wan spirit by her side did wail
And bite his lips for utter misery
The grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see
So tender grew the superhuman face
Of one who listened, that a mighty trace
Of superhuman woe gave way, and pal... | When lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale
Of love and sin and boundless agony,
While that wan spirit by her side did wail
And bite his lips for utter misery | The grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see
So tender grew the superhuman face
Of one who listened, that a mighty trace
Of superhuman woe gave way, and pale
The sudden light up-struggled to its place;
While all his limbs began to faint and fail
With such excess of pity. But, behind,
The Roman Virgil stood the ca... | sonnet |
John Clare | Poverty. | Rank Poverty! dost thou my joys assail,
And with thy threat'nings fright me from my rest?
I once had thoughts, that with a Bloomfield's tale,
And leisure hours, I surely should be blest;
But now I find the sadly-alter'd scene,
From these few days I fondly thought my own,
Hoping to spend them private and alone,
But, lo!... | Rank Poverty! dost thou my joys assail,
And with thy threat'nings fright me from my rest?
I once had thoughts, that with a Bloomfield's tale,
And leisure hours, I surely should be blest; | But now I find the sadly-alter'd scene,
From these few days I fondly thought my own,
Hoping to spend them private and alone,
But, lo! thy troop of spectres intervene:
Want shows his face, with Idleness between,
Next Shame's approaching step, that hates the throng,
Comes sneaking on, with Sloth that fetters strong.
Are ... | sonnet |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | New Year | Know this! there is nothing can harm you
If you are at peace with your soul.
Know this, and the knowledge shall arm you
With courage and strength to the goal.
Your spirit shall break every fetter,
And love shall cast out every fear.
And grander, and gladder, and better
Shall be every added new year. | Know this! there is nothing can harm you
If you are at peace with your soul. | Know this, and the knowledge shall arm you
With courage and strength to the goal.
Your spirit shall break every fetter,
And love shall cast out every fear.
And grander, and gladder, and better
Shall be every added new year. | octave |
Algernon Charles Swinburne | Nell Gwyn | Sweet heart, that no taint of the throne or the stage
Could touch with unclean transformation, or alter
To the likeness of courtiers whose consciences falter
At the smile or the frown, at the mirth or the rage,
Of a master whom chance could inflame or assuage,
Our Lady of Laughter, invoked in no psalter,
Adored of no f... | Sweet heart, that no taint of the throne or the stage
Could touch with unclean transformation, or alter
To the likeness of courtiers whose consciences falter
At the smile or the frown, at the mirth or the rage, | Of a master whom chance could inflame or assuage,
Our Lady of Laughter, invoked in no psalter,
Adored of no faithful that cringe and that palter,
Praise be with thee yet from a hag-ridden age.
Our Lady of Pity thou wast: and to thee
All England, whose sons are the sons of the sea,
Gives thanks, and will hear not if his... | sonnet |
Sara Teasdale | Immortal | So soon my body will have gone
Beyond the sound and sight of men,
And tho' it wakes and suffers now,
Its sleep will be unbroken then;
But oh, my frail immortal soul
That will not sleep forevermore,
A leaf borne onward by the blast,
A wave that never finds the shore. | So soon my body will have gone
Beyond the sound and sight of men, | And tho' it wakes and suffers now,
Its sleep will be unbroken then;
But oh, my frail immortal soul
That will not sleep forevermore,
A leaf borne onward by the blast,
A wave that never finds the shore. | octave |
Frank Sidgwick | Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight | The Text is from the Glenriddell MSS., and is the one on which Sir Walter Scott based the version given in the Border Minstrelsy. Byron notes in the preface to Childe Harold that 'the good-night in the beginning of the first canto was suggested by Lord Maxwell's Goodnight in the Border Minstrelsy.'
The Story.--John, ni... | The Text is from the Glenriddell MSS., and is the one on which Sir Walter Scott based the version given in the Border Minstrelsy. Byron notes in the preface to Childe Harold that 'the good-night in the beginning of the first canto was suggested by Lord Maxwell's Goodnight in the Border Minstrelsy.'
The Story.--John, ni... | And Cloesburn! in a band,
Where the laird of Lagg fra my father fled
When the Johnston struck off his hand.
6.
'They were three brethren in a band;
Joy may they never see!
But now I've got what I long sought,
And I maunna stay with thee.
7.
'Adiew, Dumfries, my proper place,
But and Carlaverock fair!
Adiew, the castle ... | free_verse |
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton) | The Story Of Mongrel Grey | This is the story the stockman told
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright;
The moon rose up like a globe of gold
And flooded the plain with her mellow light.
We watched the cattle till dawn of day
And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.
He was a knock-about station hack,
Spurred and walloped, and banged and ... | This is the story the stockman told
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright;
The moon rose up like a globe of gold
And flooded the plain with her mellow light.
We watched the cattle till dawn of day
And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.
He was a knock-about station hack,
Spurred and walloped, and banged and ... | All of a sudden a flood came down,
At first a freshet of mountain rain,
Roaring and eddying, rank and brown,
Over the flats and across the plain.
Rising and rising, at fall of night
Nothing but water appeared in sight!
'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out,
Even in daylight; for all around
Channels and billabongs ... | free_verse |
Walter Crane | The Hart & The Vine | A Hart by the hunters pursued,
Safely hid in a Vine, till he chewed
The sweet tender green,
And, through shaking leaves seen,
He was slain by his ingratitude.
Spare Your Benefactors | A Hart by the hunters pursued,
Safely hid in a Vine, till he chewed | The sweet tender green,
And, through shaking leaves seen,
He was slain by his ingratitude.
Spare Your Benefactors | free_verse |
Rudyard Kipling | The Four Points | Ere stopping or turning, to put foorth a hande
Is a charm that thy daies may be long in the land.
Though seventy-times-seven thee Fortune befriend,
O'ertaking at corners is Death in the end.
Sith main-roads for side-roads care nothing, have care
Both to slow and to blow when thou enterest there.
Drink as thou canst hol... | Ere stopping or turning, to put foorth a hande
Is a charm that thy daies may be long in the land. | Though seventy-times-seven thee Fortune befriend,
O'ertaking at corners is Death in the end.
Sith main-roads for side-roads care nothing, have care
Both to slow and to blow when thou enterest there.
Drink as thou canst hold it, but after is best;
For Drink with men's Driving makes Crowners to Quest. | octave |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Acquaintance | Not we who daily walk the city's
Not those who have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural art
Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet
Some stranger who has staid his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we who deem our knowledge qu... | Not we who daily walk the city's
Not those who have been cradled in its heart,
Best understand its architectural art
Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet | Some stranger who has staid his passing feet
And lingered with us for a single hour,
And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,
Than we who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear,
Not always those who dwell with us, know best
Our greater selves. Because they stand so near
T... | sonnet |
Lewis Carroll | How Doth The Little Crocodile | How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws! | How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail, | And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws! | octave |
Christina Georgina Rossetti | Song | Two doves upon the selfsame branch,
Two lilies on a single stem,
Two butterflies upon one flower:--
Oh happy they who look on them.
Who look upon them hand in hand
Flushed in the rosy summer light;
Who look upon them hand in hand
And never give a thought to night. | Two doves upon the selfsame branch,
Two lilies on a single stem, | Two butterflies upon one flower:--
Oh happy they who look on them.
Who look upon them hand in hand
Flushed in the rosy summer light;
Who look upon them hand in hand
And never give a thought to night. | octave |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | Bless God, He Went As Soldiers, | Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast;
Grant, God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest.
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white,
I should not fear the foe then,
I should not fear the fight. | Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast; | Grant, God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest.
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white,
I should not fear the foe then,
I should not fear the fight. | octave |
George MacDonald | Thou Also | Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip
The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track
The bloody secret; let the welkin crack
Reverberating, while ye dance and skip
About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip,
More secretly, for the avenging rack,
Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black
Ye watch the anguish from ... | Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip
The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track
The bloody secret; let the welkin crack
Reverberating, while ye dance and skip | About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip,
More secretly, for the avenging rack,
Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black
Ye watch the anguish from his nostrils drip,
And all the knotted limbs lie quivering!
Or, if your hearts disdain such banqueting,
With wide and tearless eyes go staring through
The murder cells... | sonnet |
Richard Hunter | Policeman. | When little dolls in Nurs'ry Street,
Do anything that's wrong;
Throw stones, or knock each other down,
Policeman comes along.
"Move on, move on," Policeman cries;
Be sure they never fail;
For if they did not move at once,
He'd take them off to jail. | When little dolls in Nurs'ry Street,
Do anything that's wrong; | Throw stones, or knock each other down,
Policeman comes along.
"Move on, move on," Policeman cries;
Be sure they never fail;
For if they did not move at once,
He'd take them off to jail. | octave |
Thomas Hardy | He Fears His Good Fortune | There was a glorious time
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
"However this chanced to be,
It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
Some day!"
The radiance went on
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness... | There was a glorious time
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
"However this chanced to be, | It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
Some day!"
The radiance went on
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness fell around
Like manna on the ground.
"I've no claim,"
Said I, "to be thus crowned:
I am not worthy this:-
Must it not go amiss? -
Well . . . let the end foreseen
Come... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. XLVIII. Tales. | There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house. | There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, | He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile:
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house. | quatrain |
Edward Lear | Nonsense Alphabet 1 | A
A was an ant
Who seldom stood still,
And who made a nice house
In the side of a hill.
a!
Nice little ant!
B
B was a book
With a binding of blue,
And pictures and stories
For me and for you.
b!
Nice little book!
C
C was a cat
Who ran after a rat;
But his courage did fail
When she seized on his tail.
c!
Crafty old cat!... | A
A was an ant
Who seldom stood still,
And who made a nice house
In the side of a hill.
a!
Nice little ant!
B
B was a book
With a binding of blue,
And pictures and stories
For me and for you.
b!
Nice little book!
C
C was a cat
Who ran after a rat;
But his courage did fail
When she seized on his tail.
c!
Crafty old cat!... | And so it was wasted.
i!
All that good ice!
J
J was a jackdaw
Who hopped up and down
In the principal street
Of a neighboring town.
j!
All through the town!
K
K was a kite
Which flew out of sight,
Above houses so high,
Quite into the sky.
k
Fly away, kite!
L
L was a light
Which burned all the night,
And lighted the glo... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | In The Sound Of Mull | Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue
On rock and ruin darkening as we go,
Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives to show
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;
From honour misconceived, or fancied wron... | Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung
Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue
On rock and ruin darkening as we go, | Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives to show
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have sprung;
From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong,
What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe.
Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed
By civil arts and labours of the pen,
Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce... | sonnet |
Robert Burns | The Kirk's Alarm. - A Ballad. (Second Version.) | I.
Orthodox, orthodox,
Who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience,
There's a heretic blast,
Has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense,
Orthodox,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.
II.
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
And strike evil doers wi' t... | I.
Orthodox, orthodox,
Who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience,
There's a heretic blast,
Has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense,
Orthodox,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.
II.
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
And strike evil doers wi' t... | VII.
Simper James, Simper James,
Leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;
I'll lay on your head,
That the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,
Simper James,
For puppies like you there's but few.
VIII.
Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious wha... | free_verse |
Helen Leah Reed | The Cry Of The Women | A new year dawning on a warring world!
And many fight, and many pray for peace;
But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
Still man against his brother man is hurled.
So we who wait - we women in our woe,
Who wait and work - who wait, and work, and weep -
For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
As our sad thoughts ... | A new year dawning on a warring world!
And many fight, and many pray for peace;
But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
Still man against his brother man is hurled. | So we who wait - we women in our woe,
Who wait and work - who wait, and work, and weep -
For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow,
Across those dreary fields where far away
Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die,
We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky -
Dawns there... | free_verse |
Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce) | Poets | Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.
Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells
Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath
Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.
They shall not live who have not tasted death.
They onl... | Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. | Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells
Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath
Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.
They shall not live who have not tasted death.
They only sing who are struck dumb by God. | octave |
Paul Cameron Brown | Old Brompton Road | 1
"Death is but a sleep"
quaint rationalization
even to Revolutionaries.
Think of Robespierre
holding his bleeding jaw
or Marat outside -
eyeing the inscription,
scofula no longer distracting while
tepidly emptying bath water.
2
Dreams, poetry of painting,
deathly pastel shades alongside
granite canyons
entwined with ... | 1
"Death is but a sleep"
quaint rationalization
even to Revolutionaries.
Think of Robespierre
holding his bleeding jaw
or Marat outside -
eyeing the inscription,
scofula no longer distracting while
tepidly emptying bath water. | 2
Dreams, poetry of painting,
deathly pastel shades alongside
granite canyons
entwined with rosebuds and leaves -
bone horseshoes clanking in the dark.
3
Catch basin, drainage ditch
upon which the raspberry
parts its tendrils and
human remains, the loathing
of the living ("not dead yet...."
...appropriate obscenity:)
... | free_verse |
Walter Savage Landor | Finis | I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. | I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. | Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. | quatrain |
Horatio Alger, Jr. | Mrs. Merdle, Having "Nibbled A Little" For Two Hours At Dinner, Retireth From The Table Unsatisfied. | "Impatient--oh yes--just the way with you men!
I never have time to half finish my eating
Ere Merdle is done; such a fidget is then,
He'd starve me I think rather 'n miss of a meeting
Where brokers preside o'er the fate of the stocks,
As Pales presided o'er shepherds and flocks.
Now while you are smoking--what nonsense... | "Impatient--oh yes--just the way with you men!
I never have time to half finish my eating
Ere Merdle is done; such a fidget is then,
He'd starve me I think rather 'n miss of a meeting | Where brokers preside o'er the fate of the stocks,
As Pales presided o'er shepherds and flocks.
Now while you are smoking--what nonsense and folly--
I'll go to my room.--don't say No, for I must--
Put on a new dress, with assistance of Molly,
And then with a little strong tea and a crust,
My strength I may hope for a w... | sonnet |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Victor And Vanquished | As one who long hath fled with panting breath
Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
I turn and set my back against the wall,
And look thee in the face, triumphant Death,
I call for aid, and no one answereth;
I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
For thou art but a p... | As one who long hath fled with panting breath
Before his foe, bleeding and near to fall,
I turn and set my back against the wall,
And look thee in the face, triumphant Death, | I call for aid, and no one answereth;
I am alone with thee, who conquerest all;
Yet me thy threatening form doth not appall,
For thou art but a phantom and a wraith.
Wounded and weak, sword broken at the hilt,
With armor shattered, and without a shield,
I stand unmoved; do with me what thou wilt;
I can resist no more, ... | sonnet |
Walter Scott (Sir) | Coronach | He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in ... | He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow! | The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumb... | free_verse |
Charles Baudelaire | Monologue | You are a lovely autumn sky, rose-clear!
But sadness is flowing in me like the sea,
And leaves on my sullen lip, as it disappears,
of its bitter slime the painful memory.
Your hand glides over my numb breast in vain:
what it seeks, dear friend, is a place made raw
by woman's ferocious fang and claw, refrain:
seek this ... | You are a lovely autumn sky, rose-clear!
But sadness is flowing in me like the sea,
And leaves on my sullen lip, as it disappears,
of its bitter slime the painful memory. | Your hand glides over my numb breast in vain:
what it seeks, dear friend, is a place made raw
by woman's ferocious fang and claw, refrain:
seek this heart, the wild beasts tear, no more.
My heart is a palace defiled by the rabble,
they drink, and murder, and clutch each other's hair!
About your naked throat a perfume h... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | The Bellman | From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
From murders Benedicite.
From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night :
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock, and almost two,
My masters all, good-day to you. | From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,
From murders Benedicite. | From all mischances that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night :
Mercy secure ye all, and keep
The goblin from ye while ye sleep.
Past one o'clock, and almost two,
My masters all, good-day to you. | octave |
James Barron Hope | Mahone's Brigade.[1] - A Metrical Address. | "In pace decus, in bello praesidium." - Tacitus.
I.
Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled,
Your drums are still, aside your trumpets laid,
But your dumb muskets once spoke to the world -
And the world listened to Mahone's Brigade.
Like waving plume upon Bellona's crest,
Or comet in red majesty arrayed,
Or... | "In pace decus, in bello praesidium." - Tacitus.
I.
Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled,
Your drums are still, aside your trumpets laid,
But your dumb muskets once spoke to the world -
And the world listened to Mahone's Brigade.
Like waving plume upon Bellona's crest,
Or comet in red majesty arrayed,
Or... | Could some Supreme Intelligence proclaim,
Arise from all the pomp of rank and grade,
War's truest heroes, oft we'd hear some name,
Unmentioned by the world, Mahone's Brigade.
And yet they have a name, enriched with thanks
And tears and homage - which shall never fade -
Their name is simply this: Men of the Ranks -
Th... | free_verse |
Arthur Macy | Dinner Favors, To S. B. F. | Give me but a bit to eat,
And an hour or two,
Just a salad and a sweet,
And a chat with you.
Give me table full or bare,
Crust or rich ragout;
But whatever be the fare,
Always give me you. | Give me but a bit to eat,
And an hour or two, | Just a salad and a sweet,
And a chat with you.
Give me table full or bare,
Crust or rich ragout;
But whatever be the fare,
Always give me you. | octave |
Samuel Butler | Smatterers | All smatterers are more brisk and pert
Than those that understand an art;
As little sparkles shine more bright
Than glowing coals, that give them light. | All smatterers are more brisk and pert | Than those that understand an art;
As little sparkles shine more bright
Than glowing coals, that give them light. | quatrain |
Richard Le Gallienne | Good-Night | (After The Norwegian Of Rosencrantz Johnsen)
Midnight, and through the blind the moonlight stealing
On silver feet across the sleeping room,
Ah, moonlight, what is this thou art revealing -
Her breast, a great sweet lily in the gloom.
It is their bed, white little isle of bliss
In the dark wilderness of midnight sea, -... | (After The Norwegian Of Rosencrantz Johnsen)
Midnight, and through the blind the moonlight stealing
On silver feet across the sleeping room,
Ah, moonlight, what is this thou art revealing - | Her breast, a great sweet lily in the gloom.
It is their bed, white little isle of bliss
In the dark wilderness of midnight sea, -
Hush! 'tis their hearts still beating from the kiss,
The warm dark kiss that only night may see.
Their cheeks still burn, they close and nestle yet,
Ere, with faint breath, they falter out ... | sonnet |
Edgar Allan Poe | Silence | There are some qualities some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a twofold Silence sea and shore
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
... | There are some qualities some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a twofold Silence sea and shore | Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet h... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DXXIV. Natural History. | Dickery, dickery, dare,
The pig flew up in the air;
The man in brown soon brought him down,
Dickery, dickery, dare. | Dickery, dickery, dare, | The pig flew up in the air;
The man in brown soon brought him down,
Dickery, dickery, dare. | quatrain |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | Lines by Taj Mahomed | This passion is but an ember
Of a Sun, of a Fire, long set;
I could not live and remember,
And so I love and forget.
You say, and the tone is fretful,
That my mourning days were few,
You call me over forgetful -
My God, if you only knew! | This passion is but an ember
Of a Sun, of a Fire, long set; | I could not live and remember,
And so I love and forget.
You say, and the tone is fretful,
That my mourning days were few,
You call me over forgetful -
My God, if you only knew! | octave |
Edward Lear | The Queer Querulous Quail | The Queer Querulous Quail,
who smoked a Pipe of tobacco on the top of
a Tin Tea-kettle.
| The Queer Querulous Quail, | who smoked a Pipe of tobacco on the top of
a Tin Tea-kettle. | free_verse |
Robert Burns | To The Same, On The Author Being Threatened With His Resentment. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.) | Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway,
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give. | Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, | In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give. | quatrain |
Robert Lee Frost | What Fifty Said | When I was young my teachers were the old.
I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
I suffered like a metal being cast.
I went to school to age to learn the past.
Now when I am old my teachers are the young.
What can't be molded must be cracked and sprung.
I strain at lessons fit to start a suture.
I got to school to y... | When I was young my teachers were the old.
I gave up fire for form till I was cold. | I suffered like a metal being cast.
I went to school to age to learn the past.
Now when I am old my teachers are the young.
What can't be molded must be cracked and sprung.
I strain at lessons fit to start a suture.
I got to school to youth to learn the future. | octave |
Archibald Lampman | The Loons. | Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,
Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray,
Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay
Floating at rest; but that was long of yore.
He was too good for earthly men; he bore
Their bitter deeds for many a patient day,
And then at last he took his unseen way.
He was your friend,... | Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,
Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray,
Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay
Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. | He was too good for earthly men; he bore
Their bitter deeds for many a patient day,
And then at last he took his unseen way.
He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:
And now, though many hundred altering years
Have passed, among the desolate northern meres
Still must ye search and wander querulously,
Crying for G... | sonnet |
Edna St. Vincent Millay | To Kathleen | Still must the poet as of old,
In barren attic bleak and cold,
Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to
Such things as flowers and song and you;
Still as of old his being give
In Beauty's name, while she may live,
Beauty that may not die as long
As there are flowers and you and song. | Still must the poet as of old,
In barren attic bleak and cold, | Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to
Such things as flowers and song and you;
Still as of old his being give
In Beauty's name, while she may live,
Beauty that may not die as long
As there are flowers and you and song. | octave |
John Campbell | Cuba | Spake one upon the vessel's prow, before
The sinking sun had kissed the glittering seas:
"'Twas here Columbus with his Genoese
Steered his frail barks toward the unknown store,
With hope unfaltering, though all hope seemed o'er;
Calm 'mid the mutineers the prophet mind
Saw the New World to which their eyes were blind,
... | Spake one upon the vessel's prow, before
The sinking sun had kissed the glittering seas:
"'Twas here Columbus with his Genoese
Steered his frail barks toward the unknown store, | With hope unfaltering, though all hope seemed o'er;
Calm 'mid the mutineers the prophet mind
Saw the New World to which their eyes were blind,
Heard on its continents the breakers' roar,
Told of the golden promise of the main,
While cursed his crew, and called a madman's dream
The land his ashes only hold for Spain!
It... | sonnet |
Oliver Herford | In Darkest Africa | At evening when the lamp is lit,
The tired Human People sit
And doze, or turn with solemn looks
The speckled pages of their books.
Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl
And in the Shadows softly growl,
And roam about the farthest floor
Where Kitten never trod before.
And, crouching in the jungle damp,
I watch the Human H... | At evening when the lamp is lit,
The tired Human People sit
And doze, or turn with solemn looks
The speckled pages of their books.
Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl
And in the Shadows softly growl, | And roam about the farthest floor
Where Kitten never trod before.
And, crouching in the jungle damp,
I watch the Human Hunter's camp,
Ready to spring with fearful roar
As soon as I shall hear them snore.
And then with stealthy tread I crawl
Into the dark and trackless hall,
Where 'neath the Hat-tree's shadows deep
Umbr... | free_verse |
John Keats | Sonnet V: To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses | As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As... | As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields; | I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with t... | sonnet |
Henry Lawson | To Tom Bracken | O had you tracked where Kendall trod
I think you would be kneelin'
Three times a week and thankin' God
That you are of New Zealan'!
For this I'll say, to make it short,
An' keep my tongue from clacken,
The people are a kinder sort
You're singin' for, Tom Bracken | O had you tracked where Kendall trod
I think you would be kneelin' | Three times a week and thankin' God
That you are of New Zealan'!
For this I'll say, to make it short,
An' keep my tongue from clacken,
The people are a kinder sort
You're singin' for, Tom Bracken | octave |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Iphigenia In Tauris (Complete) | PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
IPHIGENIA. THOAS, King of the Taurians.
ORESTES. PYLADES. ARKAS.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.
A Grove before the Temple of Diana.
IPHIGENIA.
Beneath your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs
Of this old, shady, consecrated grove,
As in the goddess' silent sanctuary,
With the same ... | PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
IPHIGENIA. THOAS, King of the Taurians.
ORESTES. PYLADES. ARKAS.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.
A Grove before the Temple of Diana.
IPHIGENIA.
Beneath your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs
Of this old, shady, consecrated grove,
As in the goddess' silent sanctuary,
With the same ... | To us it is assign'd, and strangely thus
We are conducted to the threshold here.
ORESTES.
My friend, with wondrous skill thou link'st thy wish
With the predestin'd purpose of the gods.
PYLADES.
Of what avail is prudence, if it fail
Heedful to mark the purposes of Heaven?
A noble man, who much hath sinn'd, some god
Doth... | free_verse |
Hilaire Belloc | On Torture: A Public Singer | Torture will give a dozen pence or more
To keep a drab from bawling at his door.
The public taste is quite a different thing
Torture is positively paid to sing. | Torture will give a dozen pence or more | To keep a drab from bawling at his door.
The public taste is quite a different thing
Torture is positively paid to sing. | quatrain |
Walter Savage Landor | There Falls With Every Wedding Chime | There falls with every wedding chime
A feather from the wing of Time.
You pick it up, and say 'How fair
To look upon its colors are!'
Another drops day after day
Unheeded; not one word you say.
When bright and dusky are blown past,
Upon the hearse there nods the last. | There falls with every wedding chime
A feather from the wing of Time. | You pick it up, and say 'How fair
To look upon its colors are!'
Another drops day after day
Unheeded; not one word you say.
When bright and dusky are blown past,
Upon the hearse there nods the last. | octave |
William Cowper | To William Hayley, Esq. | Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!... | Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear! | O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalled birth!
But what his commentator's... | sonnet |
William Butler Yeats | Aedh Tells Of A Valley Full Of Lovers | I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs,
For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood;
And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood
With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes:
I cried in my dream 'O women bid the young men lay
'Their heads on your knees, and drown their eyes w... | I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs,
For happy lovers passed two by two where I stood; | And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood
With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes:
I cried in my dream 'O women bid the young men lay
'Their heads on your knees, and drown their eyes with your hair,
'Or remembering hers they will find no other face fair
'Till all the valleys of the wor... | octave |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXVIII - Reflections | Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane
Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away,
And goodly fruitage with the mother spray;
'Twere madness, wished we, therefore, to detain,
With hands stretched forth in mollified disdain,
The "trumpery" that ascends in bare display
Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, and g... | Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane
Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away,
And goodly fruitage with the mother spray;
'Twere madness, wished we, therefore, to detain, | With hands stretched forth in mollified disdain,
The "trumpery" that ascends in bare display
Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, and grey
Upwhirled, and flying o'er the ethereal plain
Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet not choice
But habit rules the unreflecting herd,
And airy bonds are hardest to disown;
Hence... | sonnet |
Walter Savage Landor | On Living Too Long | Is it not better at an early hour
In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed? | Is it not better at an early hour | In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed? | quatrain |
Jonathan Swift | The Duke's Answer | BY DR. SWIFT (Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton)
Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall... | BY DR. SWIFT (Dean Smedley's Petition To The Duke Of Grafton)
Dear Smed, I read thy brilliant lines,
Where wit in all its glory shines;
Where compliments, with all their pride,
Are by their numbers dignified:
I hope to make you yet as clean
As that same Viz, St. Patrick's dean.
I'll give thee surplice, verge, and stall... | You are not in the least at pains.
Down to your dean'ry now repair,
And build a castle in the air.
I'm sure a man of your fine sense
Can do it with a small expense.
There your dear spouse and you together
May breathe your bellies full of ether,
When Lady Luna[1] is your neighbour,
She'll help your wife when she's in la... | free_verse |
Thomas Bailey Aldrich | A Dedication | Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages. | Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting, | Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages. | octave |
David Rorie M.D. | The Lum Hat Wantin' The Croon. | The burn was big wi' spate,
An' there cam' tum'lin' doon
Tapsalteerie the half o' a gate,
Wi' an auld fish-hake an' a great muckle skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
The auld wife stude on the bank
As they gaed swirlin' roun',
She took a gude look an' syne says she:
"There's food an' there's firin' gaun to the sea... | The burn was big wi' spate,
An' there cam' tum'lin' doon
Tapsalteerie the half o' a gate,
Wi' an auld fish-hake an' a great muckle skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
The auld wife stude on the bank
As they gaed swirlin' roun',
She took a gude look an' syne says she:
"There's food an' there's firin' gaun to the sea... | An' awa' she went wi' the great muckle skate,
An' the lum hat wantin' the croon!
She floatit fu' mony a mile,
Past cottage an' village an' toon,
She'd an awfu' time astride o' the gate,
Though it seemed to gree fine wi' the great muckle skate,
An' the lum hat wantin' the croon!
A fisher was walkin' the deck,
By the lic... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXIV. Riddles. | When I went up sandy hill,
I met a sandy boy;
I cut his throat, I sucked his blood,
And left his skin a hanging-o. | When I went up sandy hill, | I met a sandy boy;
I cut his throat, I sucked his blood,
And left his skin a hanging-o. | quatrain |
Abram Joseph Ryan | Out of the Depths | Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry went up from a sea --
The waves were wild with an awful wrath,
Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path;
The clouds hung low:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry floated over the waves --
Far over the pitiless wav... | Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry went up from a sea --
The waves were wild with an awful wrath,
Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path;
The clouds hung low:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
The cry floated over the waves --
Far over the pitiless wav... | The billows below them were weaving white shrouds
Out of the foam of the surge,
And the wind-voices chanted a dirge:
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Not the sign of a hope was nigh,
In the sea, in the air, or the sky;
And the lifted faces were wan and white,... | free_verse |
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | "Belshazzar Had A Letter," | Belshazzar had a letter, --
He never had but one;
Belshazzar's correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal copy
The conscience of us all
Can read without its glasses
On revelation's wall. | Belshazzar had a letter, --
He never had but one; | Belshazzar's correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal copy
The conscience of us all
Can read without its glasses
On revelation's wall. | octave |
John Clare | Lassie, I Love Thee | Lassie, I love thee!
The heavens above thee
Look downwards to move thee,
And prove my love true.
My arms round thy waist, love,
My head on thy breast, love;
By a true man caressed love,
Ne'er bid me adieu.
Thy cheek's full o' blushes,
Like the rose in the bushes,
While my love ardent gushes
With over delight.
Though cl... | Lassie, I love thee!
The heavens above thee
Look downwards to move thee,
And prove my love true.
My arms round thy waist, love,
My head on thy breast, love;
By a true man caressed love,
Ne'er bid me adieu.
Thy cheek's full o' blushes,
Like the rose in the bushes, | While my love ardent gushes
With over delight.
Though clouds may come o'er thee,
Sweet maid, I'll adore thee,
As I do now before thee:
I love thee outright.
It stings me to madness
To see thee all gladness,
While I'm full of sadness
Thy meaning to guess.
Thy gown is deep blue, love,
In honour of true love:
Ever thinkin... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Bunce. Epig. | Money thou ow'st me; prethee fix a day
For payment promis'd, though thou never pay:
Let it be Dooms-day; nay, take longer scope;
Pay when th'art honest; let me have some hope. | Money thou ow'st me; prethee fix a day | For payment promis'd, though thou never pay:
Let it be Dooms-day; nay, take longer scope;
Pay when th'art honest; let me have some hope. | quatrain |
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton) | Wallabi Joe | (Air: 'The Mistletoe Bough.')
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joe's a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as... | (Air: 'The Mistletoe Bough.')
The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
For there never was seen such a regular screw
As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
That Wallabi Joe's a fine lump of a horse;
But the stockmen said, as... | 'I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
And I feel that my legs won't stand much more.'
Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
And off he rode with a whip in his hand
To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe,... | free_verse |
Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Perfection | The leaf that ripens only in the sun
Is dull and shrivelled ere its race is run.
The leaf that makes a carnival of death
Must tremble first before the north wind's breath.
The life that neither grief nor burden knows
Is dwarfed in sympathy before its close.
The life that grows majestic with the years
Must taste the bit... | The leaf that ripens only in the sun
Is dull and shrivelled ere its race is run. | The leaf that makes a carnival of death
Must tremble first before the north wind's breath.
The life that neither grief nor burden knows
Is dwarfed in sympathy before its close.
The life that grows majestic with the years
Must taste the bitter tonic found in tears. | octave |
Robert Herrick | To His Maid, Prew. | These summer-birds did with thy master stay
The times of warmth, but then they flew away,
Leaving their poet, being now grown old,
Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold.
But thou, kind Prew, did'st with my fates abide
As well the winter's as the summer's tide;
For which thy love, live with thy master here,
Not one, b... | These summer-birds did with thy master stay
The times of warmth, but then they flew away, | Leaving their poet, being now grown old,
Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold.
But thou, kind Prew, did'st with my fates abide
As well the winter's as the summer's tide;
For which thy love, live with thy master here,
Not one, but all the seasons of the year. | octave |
Vachel Lindsay | Rhymes for Gloriana - I. The Doll upon the Topmost Bough | This doll upon the topmost bough,
This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress,
Was taken down and brought to me
One sleety night most comfortless.
Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash
Was gray brocade, most good to see.
The dear toy laughed, and I forgot
The ill the new year promised me. | This doll upon the topmost bough,
This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, | Was taken down and brought to me
One sleety night most comfortless.
Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash
Was gray brocade, most good to see.
The dear toy laughed, and I forgot
The ill the new year promised me. | octave |
John Dryden | Upon Young Mr Rogers Of Gloucestershire. | Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure,
Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race;
More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He l... | Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure, | Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
A large provision for so short a race;
More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
Too early fitted for a better state;
But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way. | octave |
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson) | Request | Give me your self one hour; I do not crave
For any love, or even thought, of me.
Come, as a Sultan may caress a slave
And then forget for ever, utterly.
Come! as west winds, that passing, cool and wet,
O'er desert places, leave them fields in flower
And all my life, for I shall not forget,
Will keep the fragrance of th... | Give me your self one hour; I do not crave
For any love, or even thought, of me. | Come, as a Sultan may caress a slave
And then forget for ever, utterly.
Come! as west winds, that passing, cool and wet,
O'er desert places, leave them fields in flower
And all my life, for I shall not forget,
Will keep the fragrance of that perfect hour! | octave |
Thomas Moore | Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXVII. | Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn
The wealth of Amalthea's horn;
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity! | Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn
The wealth of Amalthea's horn; | Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity! | octave |
John McCrae | The Harvest Of The Sea | The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-h... | The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves | Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear,
And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap;
But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear
The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep. | octave |
Archibald Lampman | A Night Of Storm. | Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown
With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,
Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,
From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken
In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull an... | Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown
With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none, | Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,
From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken
In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,
Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone.
Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;
More dark and strange thy veil'd agony,
City of storm, in whose... | sonnet |
Robert Herrick | To Dianeme | Give me one kiss,
And no more:
If so be, this
Makes you poor
To enrich you,
I'll restore
For that one, two-
Thousand score. | Give me one kiss,
And no more: | If so be, this
Makes you poor
To enrich you,
I'll restore
For that one, two-
Thousand score. | octave |
Henry John Newbolt, Sir | Fond Counsel | O youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain,
In sight and hearing of thy father's cot,
These and the morning woods, the lonely mountain,
These are thy peace, although thou know'st it not.
Wander not yet where noon's unpitying glare
Beats down the toilers in the city bare;
Forsake not yet, not yet, the homely plot,
O ... | O youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain,
In sight and hearing of thy father's cot, | These and the morning woods, the lonely mountain,
These are thy peace, although thou know'st it not.
Wander not yet where noon's unpitying glare
Beats down the toilers in the city bare;
Forsake not yet, not yet, the homely plot,
O Youth, beside thy silver-springing fountain. | octave |
Oliver Wendell Holmes | Under The Washington Elm, Cambridge | April 27,1861
Eighty years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore
They would follow the sign their banners bore,
And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done,
Half is left to do, -
Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!
When the battle is fought a... | April 27,1861
Eighty years have passed, and more,
Since under the brave old tree
Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore
They would follow the sign their banners bore,
And fight till the land was free.
Half of their work was done,
Half is left to do, - | Cambridge, and Concord, and Lexington!
When the battle is fought and won,
What shall be told of you?
Hark! - 't is the south-wind moans, -
Who are the martyrs down?
Ah, the marrow was true in your children's bones
That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones
Of the murder-haunted town!
What if the storm-clouds blow?
Wh... | free_verse |
Alfred Lichtenstein | Spring | All men are now greedy,
All women are shouting,
Hide yourself in your hump,
Remain alone - | All men are now greedy, | All women are shouting,
Hide yourself in your hump,
Remain alone - | quatrain |
Hilaire Belloc | The Statue | When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass
And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass
And grey with age: but having seen that stone
(Which was your image), ride more slowly on. | When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass | And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass
And grey with age: but having seen that stone
(Which was your image), ride more slowly on. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLXXXV. Love And Matrimony. | Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after. | Jack and Jill went up the hill, | To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after. | quatrain |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. DLXXII. Natural History. | On Christmas eve I turn'd the spit,
I burnt my fingers, I feel it yet;
The cock sparrow flew over the table;
The pot began to play with the ladle. | On Christmas eve I turn'd the spit, | I burnt my fingers, I feel it yet;
The cock sparrow flew over the table;
The pot began to play with the ladle. | quatrain |
Walter De La Mare | The Lamplighter | When the light of day declineth,
And a swift angel through the sky
Kindleth God's tapers clear,
With ashen staff the lamplighter
Passeth along the darkling streets
To light our earthly lamps;
Lest, prowling in the darkness,
The thief should haunt with quiet tread,
Or men on evil errands set;
Or wayfarers be benighted;
... | When the light of day declineth,
And a swift angel through the sky
Kindleth God's tapers clear,
With ashen staff the lamplighter
Passeth along the darkling streets
To light our earthly lamps;
Lest, prowling in the darkness,
The thief should haunt with quiet tread, | Or men on evil errands set;
Or wayfarers be benighted;
Or neighbours bent from house to house
Should need a guiding torch.
He is like a needlewoman
Who deftly on a sable hem
Stitches in gleaming jewels;
Or, haply, he is like a hero,
Whose bright deeds on the long journey
Are beacons on our way.
And when in the East com... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Kisses Loathsome. | I abhor the slimy kiss,
Which to me most loathsome is.
Those lips please me which are placed
Close, but not too strictly laced:
Yielding I would have them; yet
Not a wimbling tongue admit:
What should poking-sticks make there,
When the ruffe is set elswhere? | I abhor the slimy kiss,
Which to me most loathsome is. | Those lips please me which are placed
Close, but not too strictly laced:
Yielding I would have them; yet
Not a wimbling tongue admit:
What should poking-sticks make there,
When the ruffe is set elswhere? | octave |
Henry Lawson | For He Was A Jolly Good Fellow | They cheered him from the wharf, it was a glorious day:
His hand went to his scarf, his thoughts were far away.
Oh, he was 'Jolly Good', they sang it long and loud,
The money lender stood unknown amongst the crowd.
He'd taken him aside, while trembling fit to fall,
No friendly eye espied the last farewell of all!
He he... | They cheered him from the wharf, it was a glorious day:
His hand went to his scarf, his thoughts were far away.
Oh, he was 'Jolly Good', they sang it long and loud,
The money lender stood unknown amongst the crowd.
He'd taken him aside, while trembling fit to fall,
No friendly eye espied the last farewell of all!
He he... | (The cabin waits below the row and children's squall,
And not a soul to know the bitter farce of all).
Their hearts were good as gold, each pocket spared a 'tray',
They pooled them as of old to drink him on his way.
His pile of luggage rose, as bravely as the best,
He had two suits of clothes, his wife and kids the res... | free_verse |
Robert Herrick | Upon Spokes. | Spokes, when he sees a roasted pig, he swears
Nothing he loves on't but the chaps and ears:
But carve to him the fat flanks, and he shall
Rid these, and those, and part by part eat all. | Spokes, when he sees a roasted pig, he swears | Nothing he loves on't but the chaps and ears:
But carve to him the fat flanks, and he shall
Rid these, and those, and part by part eat all. | quatrain |
Robert Browning | Bad Dreams I | Last night I saw you in my sleep:
And how your charm of face was changed!
I asked, 'Some love, some faith you keep?'
You answered, 'Faith gone, love estranged.'
Whereat I woke, a twofold bliss:
Waking was one, but next there came
This other: 'Though I felt, for this,
My heart break, I loved on the same.' | Last night I saw you in my sleep:
And how your charm of face was changed! | I asked, 'Some love, some faith you keep?'
You answered, 'Faith gone, love estranged.'
Whereat I woke, a twofold bliss:
Waking was one, but next there came
This other: 'Though I felt, for this,
My heart break, I loved on the same.' | octave |
George MacDonald | A Better Thing | I took it for a bird of prey that soared
High over ocean, battled mount, and plain;
'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored
The invisibly obstructing window-pane!
Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve
But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye,
Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve
Thee, littl... | I took it for a bird of prey that soared
High over ocean, battled mount, and plain; | 'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored
The invisibly obstructing window-pane!
Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve
But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye,
Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve
Thee, little angel of a lower sky! | octave |
Friedrich Schiller | Germany And Her Princes. | Thou hast produced mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy,
For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.
But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it
Harder as kings to be great, easier, though, to be men! | Thou hast produced mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy, | For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.
But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it
Harder as kings to be great, easier, though, to be men! | quatrain |
Muriel Stuart | Lady Hamilton. | Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed
How sweet your slow, divine stupidity,
Your look of earth, your sense of drowsy rest,
So rich, so strange, so all unlike my sea.
After the temper of my sails, my lean
Tall masts, you were the lure of harbour hours, -
A sleepy landscape warm and very green,
Where browsing c... | Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed
How sweet your slow, divine stupidity,
Your look of earth, your sense of drowsy rest,
So rich, so strange, so all unlike my sea. | After the temper of my sails, my lean
Tall masts, you were the lure of harbour hours, -
A sleepy landscape warm and very green,
Where browsing creatures stare above still flowers.
These salt hands holding sweetness, the leader led,
A slave, too happy and too crazed to rule,
Sea land-locked, brine and honey in one bed,
... | sonnet |
Theodosia Garrison | A Love Song | My love it should be silent, being deep--
And being very peaceful should be still--
Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep--
Serenely silent as some mighty hill.
Yet is my love so great it needs must fill
With very joy the inmost heart of me,
The joy of dancing branches on the hill,
The joy of leaping waves upon the ... | My love it should be silent, being deep--
And being very peaceful should be still-- | Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep--
Serenely silent as some mighty hill.
Yet is my love so great it needs must fill
With very joy the inmost heart of me,
The joy of dancing branches on the hill,
The joy of leaping waves upon the sea. | octave |
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Song From The Wandering Jew. | See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast;
It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale - is fast.
Paler is yon maiden;
Faster is her heart's decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away. | See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast; | It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale - is fast.
Paler is yon maiden;
Faster is her heart's decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away. | octave |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CCXXXVII. Charms. | Cushy cow bonny, let down thy milk,
And I will give thee a gown of silk;
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If thou wilt let down thy milk to me.
| Cushy cow bonny, let down thy milk, | And I will give thee a gown of silk;
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If thou wilt let down thy milk to me. | quatrain |
Thomas Hardy | The Sweet Hussy | In his early days he was quite surprised
When she told him she was compromised
By meetings and lingerings at his whim,
And thinking not of herself but him;
While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round
That scandal should so soon abound,
(As she had raised them to nine or ten
Of antecedent nice young men)
And in remorse he... | In his early days he was quite surprised
When she told him she was compromised
By meetings and lingerings at his whim,
And thinking not of herself but him; | While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round
That scandal should so soon abound,
(As she had raised them to nine or ten
Of antecedent nice young men)
And in remorse he thought with a sigh,
How good she is, and how bad am I! -
It was years before he understood
That she was the wicked one he the good. | free_verse |
Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) | Sonnet CLXXI. | Anima, che diverse cose tante.
HE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUES.
Soul! with such various faculties endued
To think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;
My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear!
Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;
Your fort... | Anima, che diverse cose tante.
HE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUES.
Soul! with such various faculties endued
To think, write, speak, to read, to see, to hear;
My doting eyes! and thou, my faithful ear! | Where drinks my heart her counsels wise and good;
Your fortune smiles; if after or before,
The path were won so badly follow'd yet,
Ye had not then her bright eyes' lustre met,
Nor traced her light feet earth's green carpet o'er.
Now with so clear a light, so sure a sign,
'Twere shame to err or halt on the brief way
Wh... | free_verse |
William Wordsworth | Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XXXIII - Regrets | Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving to Memory help when she would weave
A crown for Hope! I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o'e... | Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites
And usages, whose due return invites
A stir of mind too natural to deceive; | Giving to Memory help when she would weave
A crown for Hope! I dread the boasted lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve.
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring,
The counter Spirit found in some gay church
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch
In which ... | sonnet |
Thomas Moore | Should Those Fond Hopes. (Portuguese Air.) | Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:
Should the cold world come to wake thee
From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish
Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,
And leave thy winter... | Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:
Should the cold world come to wake thee
From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish | Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,
And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;--
Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted
Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;
Then the truant, lost and blighted,
Would to his bosom be taken once more.
Like that dear bird we both ... | free_verse |
Madison Julius Cawein | Rome | Above the circus of the world she sat,
Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride:
Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat,
Shrieked at her feet and for her pastime died. | Above the circus of the world she sat, | Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride:
Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat,
Shrieked at her feet and for her pastime died. | quatrain |
William Wordsworth | Greenock | 'We' have not passed into a doleful City,
We who were led to-day down a grim dell,
By some too boldly named "the Jaws of Hell:"
Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity?
These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty:
As from the hive where bees in summer dwell,
Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell,
It n... | 'We' have not passed into a doleful City,
We who were led to-day down a grim dell,
By some too boldly named "the Jaws of Hell:"
Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity? | These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty:
As from the hive where bees in summer dwell,
Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell,
It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty.
Alas! too busy Rival of old Tyre,
Whose merchants Princes were, whose decks were thrones;
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire
T... | sonnet |
Paul Laurence Dunbar | Roses And Pearls | Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.
How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.
Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a son... | Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound. | How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.
Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine. | octave |
Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell | Unto Us A Son Is Given | Given, not lent,
And not withdrawn - once sent -
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.
New every year,
New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long.
Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not old;
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
And spring in the f... | Given, not lent,
And not withdrawn - once sent -
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.
New every year, | New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long.
Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not old;
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
And spring in the familiar green;
Sudden as sweet
Come the expected feet.
All joy is young, and new all art,
And He, too, Whom we have by heart. | free_verse |
Charles Hamilton Musgrove | Zoroaster. | I.
The light of a new day was on his brow,
The faith of a great dawn was on his tongue;
Out of the dark he raised his voice and sung
The high Messiah who should overthrow
The gods that Superstition crowned with might
And set above the world,--the coming Christ
Whose unshed blood should be the holy tryst
'Twixt man and ... | I.
The light of a new day was on his brow,
The faith of a great dawn was on his tongue;
Out of the dark he raised his voice and sung
The high Messiah who should overthrow
The gods that Superstition crowned with might
And set above the world,--the coming Christ
Whose unshed blood should be the holy tryst
'Twixt man and ... | II.
The fire that on the Magi's altars glowed
Spake to his soul in symbols and expressed
The immortal purity that without rest
Strives with the mortal grossness whose abode
Is in the heart. Their symboled fire showed One
Whose spirit on the altar of the world
Burns ceaselessly,--where, if all vice be hurled,
It shall b... | free_verse |
John Greenleaf Whittier | Red Riding-Hood | On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap;
The wind that through the pine-trees sung
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;
While, through the window, frosty-starred,
Against the sunset purple barred,
We saw the sombre crow flap by,
The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,
The crested blue-ja... | On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap;
The wind that through the pine-trees sung
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;
While, through the window, frosty-starred,
Against the sunset purple barred,
We saw the sombre crow flap by,
The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,
The crested blue-ja... | 'Oh, see,' she cried, 'the poor blue-jays!
What is it that the black crow says?
The squirrel lifts his little legs
Because he has no hands, and begs;
He's asking for my nuts, I know
May I not feed them on the snow?'
Half lost within her boots, her head
Warm-sheltered in her hood of red,
Her plaid skirt close about her ... | free_verse |
Emily Pauline Johnson | Autumn's Orchestra | (INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS)
Know by the thread of music woven through
This fragile web of cadences I spin,
That I have only caught these songs since you
Voiced them upon your haunting violin.
THE OVERTURE
October's orchestra plays softly on
The northern forest with its thousand strings,
And Autumn, the conductor wie... | (INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS)
Know by the thread of music woven through
This fragile web of cadences I spin,
That I have only caught these songs since you
Voiced them upon your haunting violin.
THE OVERTURE
October's orchestra plays softly on
The northern forest with its thousand strings,
And Autumn, the conductor wie... | Like Chopin's prelude, sobbing 'neath the rain.
THE VINE
The wild grape mantling the trail and tree,
Festoons in graceful veils its drapery,
Its tendrils cling, as clings the memory stirred
By some evasive haunting tune, twice heard.
THE MAPLE
I
It is the blood-hued maple straight and strong,
Voicing abroad its patriot... | free_verse |
Unknown | Nursery Rhyme. CXXVI. Scholastic. | Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And mussels all a row. | Mistress Mary, quite contrary, | How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And mussels all a row. | quatrain |
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