All Poems
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Jove.
© Robert Crawford
Jove himself moves in the abyss
As in the heights he goes;
The God is so in all that is,
Yet is what no one knows.
A Death-Parting
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
LEAVES and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
Song XI. - Perhaps it is not love
© William Shenstone
Perhaps it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.
Transformation
© Madison Julius Cawein
It is the time when, by the forest falls,
The touchmenots hang fairy folly-caps;
Sisina
© Charles Baudelaire
Imaginez Diane en galant équipage,
Parcourant les forêts ou battant les halliers,
Cheveux et gorge au vent, s'enivrant de tapage,
Superbe et défiant les meilleurs cavaliers!
Autumn Plaint
© Stéphane Mallarme
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or
you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Romes last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memorys half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.
Verses Ty'd About A Fawn's Neck
© Mary Barber
As thro' this sylvan Scene I stray'd,
I saw and lov'd the Iv'ry Maid:
And hearing that she fled from Man,
I begg'd this Form of mighty Pan;
How the Leopard Got His Spots
© Rudyard Kipling
I am the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in Most wise tones,
"Let us melt into the landscape - just us two by our lones."
The Mistress Of Vision
© Francis Thompson
Secret was the garden;
Set i' the pathless awe
Where no star its breath can draw.
Life, that is its warden,
Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not,
and I saw.
II. Great God, and just! how canst Thou see
© Jeremy Taylor
Great God, and just! how canst Thou see,
Dear God, our miserie,
Dagon Before The Ark
© John Newton
When first to make my heart his own,
The Lord revealed his mighty grace;
Self reigned, like Dagon, on the throne,
But could not long maintain its place.
To a Post Office Inkwell
© Christopher Morley
How many humble hearts have dipped
In you, and scrawled their manuscript!
The Battle Cry Of Freedom (Southern Version)
© Anonymous
Our flag is proudly floating
On the land and on the main,
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!
Beneath it oft we've conquered,
And we'll conquer oft again!
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!
The Winds Of War-News
© Henry Van Dyke
The winds of war-news change and veer:
Now westerly and full of cheer,
Songs In A Cornfield
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Where is he gone to
And why does he stay?
He came across the green sea
But for a day,
Across the deep green sea
To help with the hay.
I hang limp on the Creator's pen
© Boris Pasternak
Underneath are dykes' secrets; the air
From the railways is sodden and sticky,
Of the fumes of coal and night fires reeking.
But the moment night kills sunset's glare,
It turns pink itself, tinged with far flares,
And the fence stands stiff, paradox-stricken.
From: Time In The Rock
© Conrad Aiken
These things do not perplex, these things are simple,
but what of the heart that wishes to survive change
and cannot, its love lost in confusions and dismay?
what of the thought dispersed in its own algebras,
hypothesis proved fallacy? what of the will
which finds its aim unworthy? Are these, too, simple?
The Summer Sea
© Charles Kingsley
Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;
Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining
Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.
