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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 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, last with the eagle-skies,
Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant-size! | 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, last with the eagle-skies,
Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant-size! | 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 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 on my past
That all my past results in 'if'--
If I might see another Spring
I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;
I would not wait for anything:
I'd use to-day that cannot last,
Be glad to-day and sing. | 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 on my past
That all my past results in 'if'--
If I might see another Spring
I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;
I would not wait for anything:
I'd use to-day that cannot last,
Be glad to-day and sing. | 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 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 basket? Thank you. I am ready.
But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes - steady! | 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 basket? Thank you. I am ready.
But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes - steady! | 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 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 -
Resplendent Helen finds her bondage sweet.
The whole world fights her battles, while she lies
Sunned in the fervour of young Paris' eyes. | 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 -
Resplendent Helen finds her bondage sweet.
The whole world fights her battles, while she lies
Sunned in the fervour of young Paris' eyes. | 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 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 truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought. | 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 truth of love was brought,
I have been wholly yielded to its sway,
And had no room for any other thought. | 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 think his house too large for these.
A crowd to be your friends will claim,
Till some unhandsome test you bring.
There's nothing plentier than the name;
There's nothing rarer than the thing. | [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 nothing plentier than the name;
There's nothing rarer than the thing. | 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 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 load of hay;
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;
And now a bare-foot truant and his dog. | 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 load of hay;
Or when a rabbit; or a bird that lit;
And now a bare-foot truant and his dog. | 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 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 none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. -
Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve! | 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 none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill
To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. -
Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve! | 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 debtors, then, and fall
To make payment, while I call:
Ponder this, when I am gone:
By the clock 'tis almost One. | 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.
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 grasses where thy snows have been,
And thy last icy footprint melt and mold
In her first marigold. | 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 grasses where thy snows have been,
And thy last icy footprint melt and mold
In her first marigold. | 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 female pleasures be to read and write. | 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 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 riddles for desire to spell,
Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,
But may be ravenously unripped in hell? | 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 riddles for desire to spell,
Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,
But may be ravenously unripped in hell? | 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 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 greater can send
Than thy house to my house, friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house, King counselling King! | '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 greater can send
Than thy house to my house, friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house, King counselling King! | 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 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 bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train. | 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 bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train. | 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 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 thee, and thine, my sense! - how oft it sighs
For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls;
And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies! | 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 thee, and thine, my sense! - how oft it sighs
For leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls;
And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies! | 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 ungiving parliaments:
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine,
And changed his vision for the Muses Nine.
The comet that, they say, portends a dearth,
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 starve by wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield maid?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus his wars with Heraclitus?
Such are the authors who have run us down,
And exercised you critics of the town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes,
Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion.
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith! they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to civil wars for shame;
Let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame,
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman. | 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 ungiving parliaments:
So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine,
And changed his vision for the Muses Nine.
The comet that, they say, portends a dearth, | 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 starve by wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield maid?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus his wars with Heraclitus?
Such are the authors who have run us down,
And exercised you critics of the town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes,
Ye abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion.
Such harmless thrusts, as if, like fencers wise,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith! they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to civil wars for shame;
Let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame,
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman. | 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 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 right accentuation;
And gives at need (as one who understands)
Draught, counsel, diagnosis, exhortation. | 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 right accentuation;
And gives at need (as one who understands)
Draught, counsel, diagnosis, exhortation. | 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 sights,
Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
With wonder mixed, that Man could e'er be tied,
In anxious bondage, to such nice array
And formal fellowship of petty things!
Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own;
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
And gurgling rills, assist her in the work
More efficaciously than realms outspread,
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 space within, and not uncheered
(As whoso enters shall ere long perceive)
By stealthy influx of the timid day
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot,
From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,
Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.
Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave
Protect us, there deciphering as we may
Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth
Interpreting; or counting for old Time
His minutes, by reiterated drops,
Audible tears, from some invisible source
That deepens upon fancy, more and more
Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth
To awe the lightness of humanity:
Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
There let me see thee sink into a mood
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone,
And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!
We two have known such happy hours together
That, were power granted to replace them (fetched
From out the pensive shadows where they lie)
In the first warmth of their original sunshine,
Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet
Are the domains of tender memory! | (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 sights,
Unacceptable feelings of contempt,
With wonder mixed, that Man could e'er be tied,
In anxious bondage, to such nice array
And formal fellowship of petty things!
Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of her own;
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades,
And gurgling rills, assist her in the work
More efficaciously than realms outspread, | 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 space within, and not uncheered
(As whoso enters shall ere long perceive)
By stealthy influx of the timid day
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose
As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot,
From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish,
He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask,
Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine.
Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave
Protect us, there deciphering as we may
Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth
Interpreting; or counting for old Time
His minutes, by reiterated drops,
Audible tears, from some invisible source
That deepens upon fancy, more and more
Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth
To awe the lightness of humanity:
Or, shutting up thyself within thyself,
There let me see thee sink into a mood
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone,
And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend!
We two have known such happy hours together
That, were power granted to replace them (fetched
From out the pensive shadows where they lie)
In the first warmth of their original sunshine,
Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet
Are the domains of tender memory! | 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
May image, how at first I re-beheld
The sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung.
Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace
From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd
The parting beams from off the nether shores.
O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost
So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark
Though round about us thousand trumpets clang!
What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light
Kindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd,
Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse
By will divine. Portray'd before me came
The traces of her dire impiety,
Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that most
Delights itself in song: and here my mind
Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place
To aught that ask'd admittance from without.
Next shower'd into my fantasy a shape
As of one crucified, whose visage spake
Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;
And round him Ahasuerus the great king,
Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,
Blameless in word and deed. As of itself
That unsubstantial coinage of the brain
Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails
That fed it; in my vision straight uprose
A damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen!
O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire
Driv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose
Lavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself.
Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears
Mourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end."
E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly
New radiance strike upon the closed lids,
The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;
Thus from before me sunk that imagery
Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck
The light, outshining far our earthly beam.
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. "This is Spirit from above,
Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;
And in his own light shrouds him. As a man
Doth for himself, so now is done for us.
For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need
Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'd
For blunt denial, ere the suit be made.
Refuse we not to lend a ready foot
At such inviting: haste we to ascend,
Before it darken: for we may not then,
Till morn again return." So spake my guide;
And to one ladder both address'd our steps;
And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'd
Near me as 'twere the waving of a wing,
That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed they
The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath."
Now to such height above our heads were rais'd
The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night,
That many a star on all sides through the gloom
Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?"
So with myself I commun'd; for I felt
My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd
The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark
Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space,
If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,
Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire!
Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd.
If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause."
He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'er
Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils.
Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill.
But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,
Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull
Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay.
"Creator, nor created being, ne'er,
My son," he thus began, "was without love,
Or natural, or the free spirit's growth.
Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still
Is without error; but the other swerves,
If on ill object bent, or through excess
Of vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeks
The primal blessings, or with measure due
Th' inferior, no delight, that flows from it,
Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,
Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.
Pursue the good, the thing created then
Works 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer
That love is germin of each virtue in ye,
And of each act no less, that merits pain.
Now since it may not be, but love intend
The welfare mainly of the thing it loves,
All from self-hatred are secure; and since
No being can be thought t' exist apart
And independent of the first, a bar
Of equal force restrains from hating that.
"Grant the distinction just; and it remains
The' evil must be another's, which is lov'd.
Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay.
There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,)
Preeminence himself, and coverts hence
For his own greatness that another fall.
There is who so much fears the loss of power,
Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount
Above him), and so sickens at the thought,
He loves their opposite: and there is he,
Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame
That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs
Must doat on other's evil. Here beneath
This threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sort
Be now instructed, that which follows good
But with disorder'd and irregular course.
"All indistinctly apprehend a bliss
On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all
Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn
All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold
Or seek it with a love remiss and lax,
This cornice after just repenting lays
Its penal torment on ye. Other good
There is, where man finds not his happiness:
It is not true fruition, not that blest
Essence, of every good the branch and root.
The love too lavishly bestow'd on this,
Along three circles over us, is mourn'd.
Account of that division tripartite
Expect not, fitter for thine own research." | 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
May image, how at first I re-beheld
The sun, that bedward now his couch o'erhung.
Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace
From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd
The parting beams from off the nether shores.
O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost
So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark
Though round about us thousand trumpets clang!
What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light
Kindled in heav'n, spontaneous, self-inform'd,
Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse
By will divine. Portray'd before me came
The traces of her dire impiety,
Whose form was chang'd into the bird, that most
Delights itself in song: and here my mind
Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place
To aught that ask'd admittance from without.
Next shower'd into my fantasy a shape
As of one crucified, whose visage spake
Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;
And round him Ahasuerus the great king,
Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,
Blameless in word and deed. As of itself
That unsubstantial coinage of the brain
Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails
That fed it; in my vision straight uprose
A damsel weeping loud, and cried, "O queen!
O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire
Driv'n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose
Lavinia, desp'rate thou hast slain thyself.
Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears
Mourn, ere I fall, a mother's timeless end."
E'en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly
New radiance strike upon the closed lids,
The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;
Thus from before me sunk that imagery
Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck
The light, outshining far our earthly beam. | 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. "This is Spirit from above,
Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;
And in his own light shrouds him. As a man
Doth for himself, so now is done for us.
For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need
Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar'd
For blunt denial, ere the suit be made.
Refuse we not to lend a ready foot
At such inviting: haste we to ascend,
Before it darken: for we may not then,
Till morn again return." So spake my guide;
And to one ladder both address'd our steps;
And the first stair approaching, I perceiv'd
Near me as 'twere the waving of a wing,
That fann'd my face and whisper'd: "Blessed they
The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath."
Now to such height above our heads were rais'd
The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night,
That many a star on all sides through the gloom
Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?"
So with myself I commun'd; for I felt
My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd
The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark
Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space,
If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,
Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire!
Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd.
If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause."
He thus to me: "The love of good, whate'er
Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils.
Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter'd ill.
But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,
Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull
Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay.
"Creator, nor created being, ne'er,
My son," he thus began, "was without love,
Or natural, or the free spirit's growth.
Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still
Is without error; but the other swerves,
If on ill object bent, or through excess
Of vigour, or defect. While e'er it seeks
The primal blessings, or with measure due
Th' inferior, no delight, that flows from it,
Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,
Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.
Pursue the good, the thing created then
Works 'gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer
That love is germin of each virtue in ye,
And of each act no less, that merits pain.
Now since it may not be, but love intend
The welfare mainly of the thing it loves,
All from self-hatred are secure; and since
No being can be thought t' exist apart
And independent of the first, a bar
Of equal force restrains from hating that.
"Grant the distinction just; and it remains
The' evil must be another's, which is lov'd.
Three ways such love is gender'd in your clay.
There is who hopes (his neighbour's worth deprest,)
Preeminence himself, and coverts hence
For his own greatness that another fall.
There is who so much fears the loss of power,
Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount
Above him), and so sickens at the thought,
He loves their opposite: and there is he,
Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame
That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs
Must doat on other's evil. Here beneath
This threefold love is mourn'd. Of th' other sort
Be now instructed, that which follows good
But with disorder'd and irregular course.
"All indistinctly apprehend a bliss
On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all
Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn
All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold
Or seek it with a love remiss and lax,
This cornice after just repenting lays
Its penal torment on ye. Other good
There is, where man finds not his happiness:
It is not true fruition, not that blest
Essence, of every good the branch and root.
The love too lavishly bestow'd on this,
Along three circles over us, is mourn'd.
Account of that division tripartite
Expect not, fitter for thine own research." | 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 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 when thou feed'st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne:
These Lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee,
Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee. | 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 when thou feed'st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne:
These Lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee,
Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee. | 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 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 live;
Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find
How wide a space can part from inward peace
The most profound repose his cell can give. | 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 live;
Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find
How wide a space can part from inward peace
The most profound repose his cell can give. | 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 revelled in my changeful dreams,
Like petrel on the sea.
Thought followed thought, star followed star,
Through boundless regions, on;
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through, and proved us one!
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 him, blazing, still,
And steep in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.
I turned me to the pillow, then,
To call back night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again,
Throb with my heart, and me!
It would not do--the pillow glowed,
And glowed both roof and floor;
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door;
The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
And give them leave to roam.
Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
Oh, night and stars, return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn;
That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew;
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you! | 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 revelled in my changeful dreams,
Like petrel on the sea.
Thought followed thought, star followed star,
Through boundless regions, on;
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through, and proved us one! | 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 him, blazing, still,
And steep in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.
I turned me to the pillow, then,
To call back night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again,
Throb with my heart, and me!
It would not do--the pillow glowed,
And glowed both roof and floor;
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door;
The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
And give them leave to roam.
Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
Oh, night and stars, return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn;
That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew;
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you! | 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 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 heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. | 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 heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. | 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 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 Chapels lurking among trees,
Where a few villagers on bended knees
Find solace which a busy world disdains. | 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 Chapels lurking among trees,
Where a few villagers on bended knees
Find solace which a busy world disdains. | 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 hair
Nose is rather flat, perhaps.
Rose Lorraine's surpassing dress
Glitters at the ball, you see:
Daughter of the wilderness
Has no dress at all, you see.
Laura's lovers every day
In sweet verse embody her:
Katie's have a different way,
Being frank, they 'waddy' her.
Amy by her suitor kissed,
Every nightfall looks for him:
Kitty's sweetheart isn't missed
Kitty 'humps' and cooks for him.
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 chamber needs no broom
Just a sheet of bark it is.
You may find a pipe or two
If you poke and grope about:
Not a bit of starch or blue
Not a sign of soap about.
Girl I know reads Lalla Rookh
Poem of the 'heady' sort:
Kate is better as a cook
Of the rough and ready sort.
Byron's verse on Waterloo,
Makes my darling glad, you see:
Kate prefers a kangaroo
Which is very sad, you see.
Other ladies wear a hat
Fit to write a sonnet on:
Kitty has the naughty cat
Neither hat nor bonnet on!
Fifty silks has Madame Tate
She who loves to spank it on:
All her clothes are worn by Kate
When she has her blanket on.
Let her rip! the Phrygian boy
Bolted with a brighter one;
And the girl who ruined Troy
Was a rather whiter one.
Katie's mouth is hardly Greek
Hardly like a rose it is:
Katie's nose is not antique
Not the classic nose it is.
Dryad in the grand old day,
Though she walked the woods about,
Didn't smoke a penny clay
Didn't 'hump' her goods about.
Daphne by the fairy lake,
Far away from din and all,
Never ate a yard of snake,
Head and tail and skin and all. | 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 hair
Nose is rather flat, perhaps.
Rose Lorraine's surpassing dress
Glitters at the ball, you see:
Daughter of the wilderness
Has no dress at all, you see.
Laura's lovers every day
In sweet verse embody her:
Katie's have a different way,
Being frank, they 'waddy' her.
Amy by her suitor kissed,
Every nightfall looks for him:
Kitty's sweetheart isn't missed
Kitty 'humps' and cooks for him. | 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 chamber needs no broom
Just a sheet of bark it is.
You may find a pipe or two
If you poke and grope about:
Not a bit of starch or blue
Not a sign of soap about.
Girl I know reads Lalla Rookh
Poem of the 'heady' sort:
Kate is better as a cook
Of the rough and ready sort.
Byron's verse on Waterloo,
Makes my darling glad, you see:
Kate prefers a kangaroo
Which is very sad, you see.
Other ladies wear a hat
Fit to write a sonnet on:
Kitty has the naughty cat
Neither hat nor bonnet on!
Fifty silks has Madame Tate
She who loves to spank it on:
All her clothes are worn by Kate
When she has her blanket on.
Let her rip! the Phrygian boy
Bolted with a brighter one;
And the girl who ruined Troy
Was a rather whiter one.
Katie's mouth is hardly Greek
Hardly like a rose it is:
Katie's nose is not antique
Not the classic nose it is.
Dryad in the grand old day,
Though she walked the woods about,
Didn't smoke a penny clay
Didn't 'hump' her goods about.
Daphne by the fairy lake,
Far away from din and all,
Never ate a yard of snake,
Head and tail and skin and all. | 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 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 sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
| 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 sound
But sang, "O sea-starved, hungry sea.' | 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 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 brim,
And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
He sang the songs of all the world's desire, -
He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim! | 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 brim,
And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
He sang the songs of all the world's desire, -
He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim! | 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, tears where my heart was;
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was. | 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 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 move to sound. - All-beauteous boy!
How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove,
If not more lovely thou art more like Love! | 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 move to sound. - All-beauteous boy!
How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove,
If not more lovely thou art more like Love! | 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 bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends. | 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 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 to leave this heaven below
Pains they might soothe, and cares subdue awhile,
But soon the soul would sigh for 'witching Woman's smile. | 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 to leave this heaven below
Pains they might soothe, and cares subdue awhile,
But soon the soul would sigh for 'witching Woman's smile. | 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 divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. | 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 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 laughter banish all the tears,
And all the heavy mists of doubts and fears
Shall leave my longing soul somehow, someway! | 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 laughter banish all the tears,
And all the heavy mists of doubts and fears
Shall leave my longing soul somehow, someway! | 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 robes the mountain in its azure hue. | 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 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 yore
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
To where the great God lives for evermore. | 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 yore
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
To where the great God lives for evermore. | 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 what's 'appened lately calls to Jumbo's mind that day
Our push took on the Peewee pack, 'n' belted out their lard,
With twenty cops to top it off. But now I'm stowed away,
A bullet in me gizzard where I took it good and hard,
A-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the Prussian flamin' Guard.
At Bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped a mutton-truck of us
From good ole Port ker-flummox where we didn't orter be,
All in a 'elpless hole-the Pug, Bill Carkeek, Son, 'n' Gus,
Don, Steve, 'n' Jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', as it 'appens, me,
With nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a week to go for tea.
Worked loose from Caddy's bunch, we went it gay until we found
We'd took to 'arf the ragin' German Hempire on our own.
Then down we went so 'umble, with our noses in the ground,
Takin' cover in the rubble. If a German head was shown
It was fare-the-well to Herman with a bullet through the bone.
We slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' they laid for us a treat.
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 'em out with livin' lead. That was the second day.
Me left eye I'd 'ave give for jest a bubble in a cup,
Three fingers I'd 'ave parted for a bone I've flung away;
But the butcher wasn't callin', 'n' the fountain didn't play.
T'was rotten mozzle, Neddo. We had blown out ever clip,
'N' 'blooed the hammunition for the little box of tricks.
Each took a batten in his fist. Sez Billy 'Let 'er rip!'
But Son he claws his stubble. Sez,he: 'Hold a brace of ticks.'
Then 'Yow!' he pipes 'n' 'Strewth!' he sez, 'it's bricks, you blighters, bricks!'
There's more than 'arf a million spilt where somethin' hit a pub;
We creeps among 'n' sorts 'em, stack afore, 'n' stack behind;
The Hun is comin' at us with his napper like a tub,
You couldn't 'ope to miss it, pickled, paralysed, 'n' blind.
Sez Sonny: 'Lay 'em open! Give 'em blotches on the rind!'
Then bricks was flyin' in the wind. Mine dinted Otto's chin;
Ole Nosey got his brother, which he never more will roam.
When Ulrich stopped a Port bookay he rolled his alley in.
Their fire was somethin' fierce. Poor Son was blowin' blood 'n' foam,
'Fill up,' he coughs, ''n' plug 'em! S'elp me Gord, we're goin' 'ome!'
With bricks we drove right at 'em 'n' we wanged 'em best we could.
'Twas either bed 'n' breakfast or a scribble and a wreath.
Haynes bust a Prussian's almond, took the bay'net where he stood,
Then heaved his last 'arf-Brunswick, split the demon's grinnin' teeth,
And Son went down in glory, with a German underneath!
We'd started out with gibbers in our clobber and our 'ats.
They gave us floatin' lead enough to stop an army cor.
We yelled like fiends, 'n' countered with a lovely flight of bats,
Then rushed in close formation, heavin' cot- tages, n' tore
Through blinded, bleedin' Bosches, 'n' lor love yeh, it was war!
We came peltin', headfirst, 'elpless, in a drain among a lot
Of dirty, damned old Tommies (Gord! The best that ever blew!)
Eight left of us, all punctured, each man holdin' what he'd got.
Me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in me mauley, too,
A bull-nosed brick with whiskers where no whiskers ever grew.
There's nothin' doin' now. I wear me blan- kets like a toff.
The way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it's well to be so sick,
A-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way we pulled it off.
I reckon Haig is phonin' Hughes: 'Hullo, there, Billy. Quick,
A dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tons of brick!' | 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 what's 'appened lately calls to Jumbo's mind that day
Our push took on the Peewee pack, 'n' belted out their lard,
With twenty cops to top it off. But now I'm stowed away,
A bullet in me gizzard where I took it good and hard,
A-dealin'-stoush 'n' mullock to the Prussian flamin' Guard.
At Bullcoor mortal charnce had dumped a mutton-truck of us
From good ole Port ker-flummox where we didn't orter be,
All in a 'elpless hole-the Pug, Bill Carkeek, Son, 'n' Gus,
Don, Steve, 'n' Jack, 'n' seven more, 'n', as it 'appens, me,
With nothin' in since breakfast, 'n' a week to go for tea.
Worked loose from Caddy's bunch, we went it gay until we found
We'd took to 'arf the ragin' German Hempire on our own.
Then down we went so 'umble, with our noses in the ground,
Takin' cover in the rubble. If a German head was shown
It was fare-the-well to Herman with a bullet through the bone.
We slogged the cows remorseless, 'n' they laid for us a treat. | 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 'em out with livin' lead. That was the second day.
Me left eye I'd 'ave give for jest a bubble in a cup,
Three fingers I'd 'ave parted for a bone I've flung away;
But the butcher wasn't callin', 'n' the fountain didn't play.
T'was rotten mozzle, Neddo. We had blown out ever clip,
'N' 'blooed the hammunition for the little box of tricks.
Each took a batten in his fist. Sez Billy 'Let 'er rip!'
But Son he claws his stubble. Sez,he: 'Hold a brace of ticks.'
Then 'Yow!' he pipes 'n' 'Strewth!' he sez, 'it's bricks, you blighters, bricks!'
There's more than 'arf a million spilt where somethin' hit a pub;
We creeps among 'n' sorts 'em, stack afore, 'n' stack behind;
The Hun is comin' at us with his napper like a tub,
You couldn't 'ope to miss it, pickled, paralysed, 'n' blind.
Sez Sonny: 'Lay 'em open! Give 'em blotches on the rind!'
Then bricks was flyin' in the wind. Mine dinted Otto's chin;
Ole Nosey got his brother, which he never more will roam.
When Ulrich stopped a Port bookay he rolled his alley in.
Their fire was somethin' fierce. Poor Son was blowin' blood 'n' foam,
'Fill up,' he coughs, ''n' plug 'em! S'elp me Gord, we're goin' 'ome!'
With bricks we drove right at 'em 'n' we wanged 'em best we could.
'Twas either bed 'n' breakfast or a scribble and a wreath.
Haynes bust a Prussian's almond, took the bay'net where he stood,
Then heaved his last 'arf-Brunswick, split the demon's grinnin' teeth,
And Son went down in glory, with a German underneath!
We'd started out with gibbers in our clobber and our 'ats.
They gave us floatin' lead enough to stop an army cor.
We yelled like fiends, 'n' countered with a lovely flight of bats,
Then rushed in close formation, heavin' cot- tages, n' tore
Through blinded, bleedin' Bosches, 'n' lor love yeh, it was war!
We came peltin', headfirst, 'elpless, in a drain among a lot
Of dirty, damned old Tommies (Gord! The best that ever blew!)
Eight left of us, all punctured, each man holdin' what he'd got.
Me wild, a rat hole in me lung, but in me mauley, too,
A bull-nosed brick with whiskers where no whiskers ever grew.
There's nothin' doin' now. I wear me blan- kets like a toff.
The way this fat nurse pets me, strewth, it's well to be so sick,
A-dreamin' of our contract 'n' the way we pulled it off.
I reckon Haig is phonin' Hughes: 'Hullo, there, Billy. Quick,
A dozen of the pushes and a thousan' tons of brick!' | 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 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 notti a me suol far piovose
Finche mia Alba rivien colma di rose. | 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 notti a me suol far piovose
Finche mia Alba rivien colma di rose. | 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 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 charitable seals?
Once ye were holy, ye are holy still;
Your spirit freely let me drink, and live! | 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 charitable seals?
Once ye were holy, ye are holy still;
Your spirit freely let me drink, and live! | 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,
Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose!
And to my mind the thought
Is on a sudden brought
Of a past night, and a far different scene:
Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep
As clearly as at noon;
The spring-tide's brimming flow
Heaved dazzlingly between;
Houses, with long wide sweep,
Girdled the glistening bay;
Behind, through the soft air,
The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away.
That night was far more fair
But the same restless pacings to and fro,
And the same vainly throbbing heart was there,
And the same bright, calm moon.
And the calm moonlight seems to say:
Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast,
Which neither deadens into rest,
Nor ever feels the fiery glow
That whirls the spirit from itself away,
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
Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give,
Dreaming of naught beyond their prison wall.
And as, year after year,
Fresh products of their barren labor fall
From their tired hands, and rest
Never yet comes more near,
Gloom settles slowly down over their breast.
And while they try to stem
The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest,
Death in their prison reaches them,
Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest.
And the rest, a few,
Escape their prison and depart
On the wide ocean of life anew.
There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart
Listeth will sail;
Nor doth he know how there prevail,
Despotic on that sea.
Trade-winds which cross it from eternity:
Awhile he holds some false way, undebarred
By thwarting signs, and braves
The freshening wind and blackening waves.
And then the tempest strikes him; and between
The lightning bursts is seen
Only a driving wreck,
And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck
With anguished face and flying hair
Grasping the rudder hard,
Still bent to make some port he knows not where,
Still standing for some false, impossible shore.
And sterner comes the roar
Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom
Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom,
And he too disappears, and comes no more.
Is there no life, but these alone?
Madman or slave, must man be one?
Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!
Clearness divine!
Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign
Of languor, though so calm, and though so great
Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;
Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil,
And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil!
I will not say that your mild deeps retain
A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain
Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain
But I will rather say that you remain
A world above man's head, to let him see
How boundless might his soul's horizons be,
How vast, yet of what clear transparency!
How it were good to live there, and breathe free;
How fair a lot to fill
Is left to each man still! | 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,
Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose!
And to my mind the thought
Is on a sudden brought
Of a past night, and a far different scene:
Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep
As clearly as at noon;
The spring-tide's brimming flow
Heaved dazzlingly between;
Houses, with long wide sweep,
Girdled the glistening bay;
Behind, through the soft air,
The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away.
That night was far more fair
But the same restless pacings to and fro,
And the same vainly throbbing heart was there,
And the same bright, calm moon.
And the calm moonlight seems to say:
Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast,
Which neither deadens into rest,
Nor ever feels the fiery glow
That whirls the spirit from itself away, | 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
Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give,
Dreaming of naught beyond their prison wall.
And as, year after year,
Fresh products of their barren labor fall
From their tired hands, and rest
Never yet comes more near,
Gloom settles slowly down over their breast.
And while they try to stem
The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest,
Death in their prison reaches them,
Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest.
And the rest, a few,
Escape their prison and depart
On the wide ocean of life anew.
There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart
Listeth will sail;
Nor doth he know how there prevail,
Despotic on that sea.
Trade-winds which cross it from eternity:
Awhile he holds some false way, undebarred
By thwarting signs, and braves
The freshening wind and blackening waves.
And then the tempest strikes him; and between
The lightning bursts is seen
Only a driving wreck,
And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck
With anguished face and flying hair
Grasping the rudder hard,
Still bent to make some port he knows not where,
Still standing for some false, impossible shore.
And sterner comes the roar
Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom
Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom,
And he too disappears, and comes no more.
Is there no life, but these alone?
Madman or slave, must man be one?
Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain!
Clearness divine!
Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign
Of languor, though so calm, and though so great
Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;
Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil,
And, though so tasked, keep free from dust and soil!
I will not say that your mild deeps retain
A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain
Who have longed deeply once, and longed in vain
But I will rather say that you remain
A world above man's head, to let him see
How boundless might his soul's horizons be,
How vast, yet of what clear transparency!
How it were good to live there, and breathe free;
How fair a lot to fill
Is left to each man still! | 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 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 been a joy that I shall no more know
Before I to my better portion go. | 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 been a joy that I shall no more know
Before I to my better portion go. | 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 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 snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. | 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 snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. | 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, and spectres will flee,
For who can molest me while trusting in thee? | 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 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 that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. | 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 that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. | 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 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, whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost,
Finish the strife by deadliest victory!" | 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, whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost,
Finish the strife by deadliest victory!" | 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 conference
Till every far-off farmstead goes insane? | 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 the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture,
Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"
"'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet
Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?"
"If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly
Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them."
"Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured,
Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count."
"What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then,
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 is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren,
But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist."
"But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia,
Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"
"Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral;
And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain."
"What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now,
Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?"
"No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce,
Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse."
"But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with
That can be truly called great? what that is great can they do?"
"What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket
Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed."
"Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic,
Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"
"All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also,
And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here."
"But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,
Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?"
"Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question;
Ever is destiny blind, ever is righteous the bard."
"Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature,
While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?"
"There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning;
And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!" | 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 the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture,
Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"
"'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet
Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?"
"If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly
Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them."
"Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured,
Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count."
"What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then, | 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 is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren,
But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist."
"But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia,
Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"
"Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral;
And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain."
"What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now,
Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?"
"No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce,
Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse."
"But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with
That can be truly called great? what that is great can they do?"
"What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket
Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed."
"Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic,
Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"
"All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also,
And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here."
"But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,
Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?"
"Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question;
Ever is destiny blind, ever is righteous the bard."
"Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature,
While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?"
"There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning;
And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!" | 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 perfumed - loops of radiance; and they,
Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by,
Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky,
Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter fling
Like far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.
II.
Then we surprise each Naiad ere she slips -
Nude at her toilette - in her fountain's glass,
With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hips
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 minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips
Bubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.
III.
Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes
Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;
She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
Blushing her temples, - to deep loins and breast
Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed, -
Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise
Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,
Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,
In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;
So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound
A thistle's flashing to a woody rise,
A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.
IV.
Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shades
Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance
With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:
Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,
Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance
The advent of some Innocence, who wades
Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,
In braided shadows, when two hairy arms
Hug her unconscious beauty panting white;
Till tearful terror, struggling into might,
Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,
Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.
| 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 perfumed - loops of radiance; and they,
Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by,
Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky,
Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter fling
Like far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.
II.
Then we surprise each Naiad ere she slips -
Nude at her toilette - in her fountain's glass,
With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hips | 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 minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips
Bubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.
III.
Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes
Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;
She, all the maiden modesty's surprise
Blushing her temples, - to deep loins and breast
Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed, -
Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise
Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,
Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,
In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;
So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound
A thistle's flashing to a woody rise,
A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.
IV.
Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shades
Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance
With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:
Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,
Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance
The advent of some Innocence, who wades
Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,
In braided shadows, when two hairy arms
Hug her unconscious beauty panting white;
Till tearful terror, struggling into might,
Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,
Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms. | 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 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, what I had not known,
I know, a light, pure shining as a star,
A song, uprising like a holy hymn. | 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, what I had not known,
I know, a light, pure shining as a star,
A song, uprising like a holy hymn. | 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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