All Poems

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Lines: Written In 'Letters Of An Italian Nun And An English Gentleman'

© George Gordon Byron

'Away, away, your fleeting arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving.'

Excelsior

© Francis Bret Harte

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Eastern village passed
A youth who bore, through dust and heat,
A stencil-plate, that read complete--"SAPOLIO."

Composed During A Storm

© William Wordsworth

One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth-his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl

Oh say not that my heart is cold

© Charles Wolfe

Oh say not that my heart is cold

To aught that once could warm it -

Orpheus In The Underworld

© David Gascoyne

Curtains of rock
And tears of stone,
Wet leaves in a high crevice of the sky:
From side to side the draperies
Drawn back by rigid hands.

The Storm

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

They say it is the wind in midnight skies

Loud shrieking past the window, that doth make

A Christmas Hymn

© Joseph Furphy

The Seraph-song of morning's prime
That hail'd Messiah's birth,
The charter of a coming time
When Love shall rule the earth,
Rings from yon far Judaean hill

Sweet And Low

© Alfred Tennyson

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Hope

© William Dean Howells

We sailed and sailed upon the desert sea

Where for whole days we alone seemed to be.

To My Heavenly Charmer

© Martha Sansom

My poor expecting Heart beats for thy Breast,

In ev'ry Pulse, and will not let me rest;

Sonnet V.

© Christopher Pearse Cranch

ALL loves have frailer roots than loves that start
From one ancestral blood. The friends we find
In youth pass on before us, or behind
Are dropped, or on diverging paths depart,

Sonnet 84: Highway

© Sir Philip Sidney

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,

And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,

Love After Sorrow

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Behold, this hour I love, as in the glory of morn.
I too, the accursèd one, whom griefs pursue
Like phantoms through a land of deaths forlorn,
Have felt my heart leap up with courage new.

The Idiot Boy

He wandered down the moutain grade
Beyond the speed assigned-
A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.

The Drowned Alive

But what are these down in its bed
That trail so long and look so red,
Moving as in conscious sport?
Are they weeds of curious sort?
But Ill drive to them and see
Into all their mystery.

I will remember what I was. I am sick of rope and chain-
I will remember my old strength and all my forest-affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugarcane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.

Airlin's Fine Braes

© Robert Burns

O I've walked o'er yon countries baith early and late
Among Airlin's braw lasses I've had mony a lang seat.
Comin' hame in the mornins, fin I should have been at ease
Fin I wis a plooboy on Airlin's fine braes.