All Poems
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Time and Grief
© William Lisle Bowles
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
Our House
© Edgar Albert Guest
WE play at our house and have all sorts of fun,
An' there's always a game when supper is done;
An' at our house there's marks on the walls an' the stairs,
An' some terrible scratches on some of the chairs;
An' ma says that our house is surely a fright,
But pa and I say that our house is all right.
Sonnet: July 18th 1787
© William Lisle Bowles
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
A Novelty
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Why should I care for the Ages
Because they are old and grey?
To me, like sudden laughter,
The stars are fresh and gay;
The world is a daring fancy,
And finished yesterday.
In Age
© William Lisle Bowles
And art thou he, now "fallen on evil days,"
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,--
Sonnet: O Poverty! Though From Thy Haggard Eye
© William Lisle Bowles
O, Poverty! though from thy haggard eye,
Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,
Thy brow that Hope's last traces long have left,
Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly;
On a Beautiful Landscape
© William Lisle Bowles
Here is no tint of mortal change--the day
Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy
Gambol with look, and almost bark, of joy--
Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay.
Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach
Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.
XI. Written at Ostend
© William Lisle Bowles
HOW sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs, July 20th 1787
© William Lisle Bowles
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
No Songs In Winter
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
The sky is gray as gray may be,
There is no bird upon the bough,
There is no leaf on vine or tree.
To The Lady Magdalen Herbert, Of St. Mary Magdalen
© John Donne
HER of your name, whose fair inheritance
Bethina was, and jointure Magdalo,
In Youth
© William Lisle Bowles
Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace
Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair,
That brow untouched by one faint line of care,
To mar its openness, we seem to trace
Oh! Weep For Those
© George Gordon Byron
I.
Oh! Weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream,
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell--
Mourn--where their God that dwelt-the Godless dwell!
Elegy For My Father
© Annie Finch
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seals wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.
Hart Crane, Voyages
Approach Of Summer
© William Lisle Bowles
How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill
My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
A Valentine For Hands
© Annie Finch
names, silencequietest minutes
(building like rain or returning like seas)
since they have touched me, your warm hands have sown
gentlest sounds, touches and hours
(or, building like rain, turning, like seas)
Moon
© Annie Finch
Then are you the dense everywhere that moves,
the dark matter they haven't yet walked through?No, Im not. Im just the shining sun,
sometimes covered up by the darkness.But in your beautyyes, I know you see
There is no covering, no constant light.
Don Rafael
© Emma Lazarus
"I would not have," he said,
"Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave,
Grief's hideous panoply I would not have
Round me when I am dead.
Landing Under Water, I See Roots
© Annie Finch
All the things we hide in water
hoping we won't see them go
(forests growing under water
press against the ones we know)
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803
© William Wordsworth
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
This corner is your own.
