All Poems
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Sir Lark and King Sun
© George MacDonald
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone
Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.
"Shine on me, my lord: I only am come,
Of all your servants, to welcome you home!
I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear,
To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."
When I Have Passed Away
© Claude McKay
When I have passed away and am forgotten,
And no one living can recall my face,
When under alien sod my bones lie rotten
With not a tree or stone to mark the place;
This Tattered Catechism
© Katharine Lee Bates
THIS tattered catechism weaves a spell,
Invoking from the Long Ago a child
Inscriptions Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone
© William Wordsworth
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
The House Of Dust: Part 01: 07:
© Conrad Aiken
'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She diedyou know the way. Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'
Paracelsus: Part IV: Paracelsus Aspires
© Robert Browning
Festus.
So strange
That I must hope, indeed, your messenger
Has mingled his own fancies with the words
Purporting to be yours.
In The Harbour: The City And The Sea
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Life-giving, death-giving, which will it be;
O breath of the merciful, merciless Sea?
Ho Chih-chang
© Li Po
When we met the first time at Chang-an
He called me the Lost Immortal.
Then he loved the Way of Forgetting.
Now under the pine-trees he is dust.
His golden keepsake bought us wine.
Remembering, the tears run down my cheeks.
Taking His Place
© Edgar Albert Guest
He's doing double duty now;
Time's silver gleams upon his brow,
The Pool
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Here in the night all wonders are,
Lapped in the lift of the ripple's swing,
A silver shell and a shaken star,
And a white moth's wing.
Here the young moon when the mists unclose
Swims like the bud of a golden rose.
At Last
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
In youth, when blood was warm and fancy high,
I mocked at death. How many a quaint conceit
Apparition (1)
© Louis Honoré Fréchette
J'étais allé parer ma chaloupe côtière,
Sur la pointe, là-bas, en amont des brisants,
Pour un voyage au Bic. D'après les médisants,
Dieu voulut me punir, car c'était un dimanche.
Pas plus de vent que sur la main ; mais en revanche,
Un brouillard, mes enfants, à couper au couteau.
The Early Bird
© George MacDonald
A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;
Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;
Day-long she had worked almost without rest,
And had filled every one of their gibbous crops;
Her own she had filled just over-full,
And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.
The Flowers Of Helicon
© Richard Monckton Milnes
The solitudes of Helicon
Are rife with gay and scented flowers,
Shining the marble rocks upon,
Or 'mid the valley's oaken bowers;
"When Birds were Songless"
© William Watson
When birds were songless on the bough
I heard thee sing.
The world was full of winter, thou
Wert full of spring.
Notions
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about
Seems to be any one other than you;
Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about
Twelve anapestic good verses and true.
At The Banquet To the Japanese Embassy
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun!
The voice of the many sounds feebly through one;
Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone,
But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown.
To A Lady, Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses
© George Gordon Byron
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
