All Poems

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Hero And Leander. The Fourth Sestiad

© George Chapman

Now from Leander's place she rose, and found

Her hair and rent robe scatter'd on the ground;

Christ In The Museum

© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall

BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight

Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray;

The Thunder-Shower

© John Hall Wheelock

The lightning flashed, and lifted

The lids of heaven apart,

The Wood And The Shore

© Muriel Stuart

The low bay melts into a ring of silver,

And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger

The Guardian Angels

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

A Ballad

Father John in the green lane went

Defiance

© Walter Savage Landor

Catch her and hold her if you can--
See, she defies you with her fan,
Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread
In threatening guise over your head.

To June. Written After An Ungenial May

© Denis Florence MacCarthy

I'll heed no more the poet's lay-
His false-fond song shall charm no more-
My heart henceforth shall but adore
The real, not the misnamed May.

On Some Rose Leaves Brought From The Vale Of Cashmere

Faded and pale their beauty, vanished their early bloom,
Their folded leaves emit alone a sweet though faint perfume,
But, oh! than brightest bud or flower to me are they more dear,
They come from that rose-haunted land, the bright Vale of Cashmere.

The Magic Purse

© Madison Julius Cawein

WHAT is the gold of mortal-kind
To that men find
Deep in the poet's mind!
That magic purse

Must I remind you, Cleis,

© Sappho

Must I remind you, Cleis,
that sounds of grief
are unbecoming in
a poet's household?

FishermenNot Of Galilee

© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

THEY have toiled all the night, the long weary night,
They have toiled all the night, Lord, and taken nothing:--
The heavens are as brass, and all flesh seems as grass,
Death strikes with horror and life with loathing.

Ode To The Moon

© Thomas Hood

I
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,

Svanhvit's Colloquy

What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,
My star, appear to me on one of them?
Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.
Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

Laus Virginitatis

The mirror of men's eyes delights me less,
mirror, than the friend I find in thee;
Thou loves!:, as I love, my loveliness,
Thou givest my beauty back to me.

The Golden Legend: III. A Street In Strasburg

_Crier of the dead (ringing a bell)._ Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

The Little White Sun

THE sky had a gray, gray face,
The touch of the mist was chill,
The earth was an eerie place,
For the wind moaned over the hill;
But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue,
When the little white sun came peeping through.