All Poems

/ page 1052 of 3210 /

Order by :

Wellington

© Charles Harpur

Great captain if you will! great Duke! great Slave!

Great minion of the crown! - but a great man

The Speeches of Gratulations

© Benjamin Jonson

Stay, what art thou, that in this strange attire,
Dar'st kindle stranger, and un-hallowed fire
Upon this Altar?

Don Juan: Canto The Seventeenth

© George Gordon Byron

The world is full of orphans: firstly, those

Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase

Worthy The Name of Sir Knight

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I

Sir Knight of the world's oldest order,

The Pathos Of Applause

© James Whitcomb Riley

The greeting of the company throughout

Was like a jubilee,--the children's shout

A Portrait

© Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Tell me, ye prim adepts in Scandals school,

Who rail by precept, and detract by rule,

O'Connell

© Denis Florence MacCarthy

So let the verse in echoing accents ring,
So proudly sing,
With intermittent wail,
The nation's dead, but sceptred King,
The glory of the Gael.

Said I to Myself, Said I

© William Schwenck Gilbert

When I went to the Bar as a very young man

(Said I to myself - said I),

The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,
In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door
And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was
Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause
His dextrous knife was balancing a bit
Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.

The Paint-Kings

© Washington Allston

Fair Ellen was long the delight of the young,
No damsel could with her compare;
Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue.
And bards without number in extacies sung,
The beauties of Ellen the fair.

The Atlas

© Kenneth Slessor

I. The King of Cuckooz
THE King of Cuckooz Contrey
Hangs peaked above Argier
With Janzaries and Marabutts

Mother Bombie

© John Lyly

O Cupid ! Monarch ouer Kings,
Wherefore hast thou feete and wings?
It is to shew how swift thou art,
When thou wound'st a tender heart:
Thy wings being clip'd, and feete held still,
Thy Bow so many could not kill.

Idle Fame

© John Clare

I would not wish the burning blaze

Of fame around a restless world,

The Hidden Room

I marvel if my heart,
Hath any room apart,
Built secretly its mystic walls within;
With subtly warded key.
Ne'er yielded unto me--
Where even I have surely never been.

A Word For It

"Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not,

I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle,

The Invitation

O for the strength to paint my joy once more!

That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er;

A Dead Year

© Jean Ingelow

I took a year out of my life and story--
A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb!
'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;'
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom;
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old;
Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold.

Lockerbie Street

Such a dear little street it is, nestled away
From the noise of the city and heat of the day,
In cool shady coverts of whispering trees,
With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze
Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet
With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street!