All Poems

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3210

Spring and Fall: To A Young Child

© Gerard Manley Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

What Kind Of Mistress He Would Have

© Robert Herrick

Be the mistress of my choice,

Clean in manners, clear in voice;

Upon Parson Beanes

© Robert Herrick

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away
That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.

His Wish To God

© Robert Herrick

I would to God, that mine old age might have

Before my last, but here a living grave;

His Prayer To Ben Jonson

© Robert Herrick

When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.

His Prayer For Absolution

© Robert Herrick

For those my unbaptized rhymes,

Writ in my wild unhallowed times,

Another Grace For A Child

© Robert Herrick

Here a little child I stand
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.

Croquis

© William Ernest Henley

The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then,

He groped and fiddled doggedly along,

Barmaid

© William Ernest Henley

Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,

Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Satires of Circumstance in Fifteen Glimpses VIII: In the St

© Thomas Hardy

He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair

Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,

Rom: On the Palatine

© Thomas Hardy

We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile,
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show,
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico,
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.

At Lulworth Cove A Century Back

© Thomas Hardy

Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:

I Hardly Remember

© Robert Graves

I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you
floats in some remote current of my blood.
I carry you in my depths, trapped in the sludge
like one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.