All Poems
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Autumn III
© Thomas Hood
The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;
To De Witt Miller
© Eugene Field
Dear Miller: You and I despise
The cad who gathers books to sell 'em,
Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth
Or stately folios garbed in vellum.
Conclusion
© Madison Julius Cawein
The songs Love sang to us are dead:
Yet shall he sing to us again,
When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
And the red woodland drips with rain.
In Praise of Pain
© Heather McHugh
The brightness drawn and quartered on a sheet,
the moment cracked upon a bed, will last
as if you soldered them with moon and flux.
And break the bottle of the eye to see
what lights are spun of accident and glass.
The Missionary - Canto Second
© William Lisle Bowles
The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,
Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,--
A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,
Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;
And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,
Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:--
Chinese Whispers
© John Ashbery
And in a little while we broke under the strain:
suppurations ad nauseam, the wanting to be taller,
The Columbiad: Book VIII
© Joel Barlow
On fame's high pinnacle their names shall shine,
Unending ages greet the group divine,
Whose holy hands our banners first unfurl'd,
And conquer'd freedom for the grateful world.
Paradise Regain'd: Book II (1671)
© Patrick Kavanagh
MEan while the new-baptiz'd, who yet remain'd
At Jordan with the Baptist, and had seen
The Fire
© Robert Laurence Binyon
With beckoning fingers bright
In heaven uplifted, from the darkness wakes,
Upon a sudden, radiant Fire,
And out of slumber shakes
Fruit-gathering LV
© Anselm Hollo
Tulsidas, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead.
Downward, Through The Blooming Roofage
© Charles Harpur
Downward, through the blooming roofage
Of a lonely forest bower,
Come the yellow sunbeams,falling
Like a burning shower:
Be Still. The Hanging Gardens were a Dream
© Trumbull Stickney
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persian roses flew to kiss
Home 1
© Edward Thomas
Not the end: but there's nothing more.
Sweet Summer and Winter rude
I have loved, and friendship and love,
The crowd and solitude:
