All Poems
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXIV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
IN ANNIVERSARIO MORTIS
If I can bring no tribute of fresh tears
To mingle with the dust which covers thee;
If in this latest dawn of evil years
Pilgrims To The East
© Katharine Tynan
This Christmas-time my son will come,
God willing, to the Holy Place
And by the manger's little room
Will bend his knee and bow his face,
Eager, with shepherds and with kings,
For to behold the Holy Things.
Virtues That Pay
© Joseph Furphy
You argue as sympathy governs your bias
That Wisdom distributes the capon and crust,
Indulging the sinful, and stinting the pious,
Or starving the wicked, and fattening the just.
You are wrong to the Evil One; hear what I say
There are ruinous virtues, and virtues that pay.
Beginning Of End
© Francis Thompson
She was aweary of the hovering
Of Love's incessant tumultuous wing;
The Memorial Pillar
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude,
Nor with attention's lifted eye, revered
That modest stone, by pious Pembroke rear'd,
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power,
The silent sorrows of a parting hour? ~ ROGERS.
Lines On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill
© George Gordon Byron
And thou wert sad - yet I was not with thee;
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not - and pain and sorrow here!
What Home's Intended For
© Edgar Albert Guest
When the young folks gather 'round in the good old-fashioned way,
Singin' all the latest songs gathered from the newest play,
Or they start the phonograph an' shove the chairs back to the wall
An' hold a little party dance, I'm happiest of all.
Then I sorter settle back, plumb contented to the core,
An' I tell myself most proudly, that's what home's intended for.
Love and Age
© Thomas Love Peacock
I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
A Womans Sonnets: X
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Love, ere I go, forgive me each least wrong,
Each trouble I unwittingly have wrought.
My heart, my life, my tears to thee belong;
Yet have I erred, maybe, through too fond thought.
A Back-Log Song
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
De axes has been ringin' in de woods de blessid day,
An' de chips has been a-fallin' fa' an' thick;
Alas! Where Have All The Years Gone
© Walther von der Vogelweide
Alas! Where have all the years gone?
Did I dream my life, or is it real?
Address To Certain Golfishes
© Hartley Coleridge
RESTLESS forms of living light
Quivering on your lucid wings,
Infanta Marina
© Wallace Stevens
She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures
Of her thought.
Aristocrats: "I Think I Am Becoming A God"
© Keith Douglas
The noble horse with courage in his eye,
clean in the bone, looks up at a shellburst:
Give Me A Lass With A Lump Of Land
© Allan Ramsay
Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,
And we for life shall gang thegither;
To Rosemary, On The Methods By Which She Might Become An Angel
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Not where the sober sisters, grave as willows,
Walk like old twilights by the jasper sea,
Nor where the plump hunt of cherubs holly-hilloes
Chasing their ruddy fox, the sun, you'll be!
To A Young Mother On The Birth Of Her First Born Child
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,
Well mayst thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice:
A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,
Far dearer to thy womans heart than all the wealth of earth.
Myself
© Harriet Monroe
What am I? I am Earth the mother,
With all her nebulous memories;
And the young Day, and Night her brother,
And every god that was and is.
