All Poems
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To a Husband
© Amy Lowell
Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River
Are your words in the dark, Beloved.
The Properly Scholarly Attitude
© Adelaide Crapsey
The poet pursues his beautiful theme;
The preacher his golden beatitude;
On The Reverend Sir James Stonhouse, Bart. M.D., In The Chapel At The Hotwells, Bristol
© Hannah More
Here rests awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The Orator, Physician, and Divine:
The Dawn
© Ada Cambridge
All the wild waves rock'd in shadow,
And the world was dim and grey,
Dark and silent, hush'd and breathless,
Waiting calmly for the day.
Dark Wood, Dark Water
© Sylvia Plath
This wood burns a dark
Incense. Pale moss drips
In elbow-scarves, beards
Yom Kippur 1984
© Adrienne Rich
I drew solitude over me, on the long shore.
—Robinson Jeffers, “Prelude”
For whoever does not afflict his soul through this day, shall be
cut off from his people.
Songs from The Beggars Opera: Air XVI-Over the Hills, and Far Away
© John Gay
Act I, Scene xiii, Air XVIOver the Hills, and Far Away
The Youngest Daughter of Lady ****
© Samuel Rogers
Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal
What most her blushes would conceal?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The seraph-sweetness of her face?
Some fairer, better sport prefer;
And feel for us, if not for her.
Love's Nocturn
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Master of the murmuring courts
Where the shapes of sleep convene!—
Sonnet XIII: Behold What Hap
© Samuel Daniel
Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame
And carve his proper grief upon a stone;
Epistle from Mrs. Yonge to Her Husband
© Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Think not this paper comes with vain pretense
To move your pity, or to mourn th offense.
Reflections Of A Magistrand
© Robert Fuller Murray
on returning to St. Andrews
In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again;
Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train,
Bearing bejants with their luggage (boxes full of heavy books,
Omar Khayyam
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
READING in Omar till the thoughts that burned
Upon his pages seemed to be inurned
Within me in a silent fire, my pen
By instinct to his flowing metre turned.
Dead Butterfly
© Ellen Bass
For months my daughter carried
a dead monarch in a quart mason jar.
To and from school in her backpack,
to her only friend’s house. At the dinner table
it sat like a guest alongside the pot roast.
She took it to bed, propped by her pillow.
