All Poems
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Italy : 51. Marco Griffoni
© Samuel Rogers
War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or
later, play they how they will; yet every nation has
delighted in war, and none more in their day than the
little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had
Miss T
© Walter de la Mare
It's a very odd thing -
As odd can be -
That whatever Miss T eats
Turns into Miss T.;
An Uninscribed Monument on One of the Battle-Fields of the Wilderness
© Herman Melville
Silence and solitude may hint
(Whose home is in yon piney wood)
Garden
© John Greenleaf Whittier
O painter of the fruits and flowers,
We own wise design,
Where these human hands of ours
May share work of Thine!
How Long
© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
How long will you think about this painful life?
How long will you think about this harmful world?
The only thing it can take from you is your body.
Don't say all this rubbish and stop thinking.
Chaste Florimel
© Matthew Prior
No - I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.
The Four Queens (Maoriland).
© Arthur Henry Adams
Wellington.
HERE, where the surges of a world of sea
Break on our bastioned walls with league-long sweep,
Four fair young queens their lonely splendour keep,
The Man of Sentiment
© Kenneth Slessor
Part One
[A walled garden of York. It is an August Sunday, and the baying of deep church-bells is blown faintly in a warm wind. Laurence Sterne, prebendary, aged forty-six, and Catherine de Fromantel, a girl who sings at Ranelagh, are dawdling through the arbours, and pause at a path which runs between hedges and cypress-trees round a corner some fifty yards away. Catherine has walked down such a path before, it is to be feared, and halts cautiously upon its fringes.]
Laurence:
Nay, 'tis no Devil's walk,
Carrier Letter
© Hart Crane
My hands have not touched water since your hands, -
No; - nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell'.
And with the day, distance again expands
Between us, voiceless as an uncoiled shell.
The Call
© George Herbert
Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life:
Such a Way, as gives us breath:
Such a Truth, as ends all strife:
Such a Life, as killeth death.
Sonnet III. Written On The Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison
© John Keats
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
Avieni V. C. Ad Amicos
© Richard Lovelace
AVIENI V. C. AD AMICOS.
Rure morans, quid agam, respondi, pauca rogatus:
Mane, deum exoro famulos, post arvaque viso,
Partitusque meis justos indico labores;
The Old Bridge At Florence
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old,
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone
At The Summit
© Harriet Monroe
Where bold Sierras cut the sky
Mount Whitney, of the high most high,
Halts the pale clouds that wander by.
Homer's Battle Of The Frogs And Mice. Book III
© Thomas Parnell
But down Olympus to the Western Seas,
Far-shooting Phbus drove with fainter Rays,
And a whole War (so Jove ordain'd) begun,
Was fought, and ceas'd, in one revolving Sun.
4th July, 1882, Malines. Midnight.
© James Kenneth Stephen
Belgian, with cumbrous tread and iron boots,
Who in the murky middle of the night,
Designing to renew the foul pursuits
In which thy life is passed, ill-favoured wight,
Sonnet To The White-Bird Of The Tropic
© Helen Maria Williams
BIRD of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line,
Angkor
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
Out of the Forest into a terrible splendour
Of noon, the pinnacles of the temple--portals,
Stone Faces, immense in carven ruin
Above the trembling of giant trees emerge.
