All Poems
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Sonnet 86: "Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,"
© William Shakespeare
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
Requiescat
© Oscar Wilde
TREAD lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth
© Ovid
The End of the Thirteenth Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
The Convent Garden
© Katharine Tynan
The Convent garden lies so near
The road the people go,
If it was quiet you might hear
The nuns' talk, merry and low.
Canopus
© Bert Leston Taylor
When quacks with pills political would dope us,
When politics absorbs the livelong day,
A Little Dog
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
"And why are you abusing God, and praising
With mock effacement
And false abasement
Your own heart's kindness, deeming it amazing
That you should do this duty for my sake,
To The Right Honble. The Lady Dowager Torrington,
© Mary Barber
When you command, the Muse obeys,
Proud to present her humble Lays.
Of writing I'll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwisely spent;
If Verse the Happiness procures
Of pleasing such a Soul as yours.
A Sonnet With A Twist
© Emil Aarestrup
What do they mean, these soft-pressed hands, these glances?
Whats really said by kisses, fond embraces?
Only the heart for such, sweet girl, has phrases:
My foolish one, what head can grasp such fancies?
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 09:
© Conrad Aiken
The days, the nights, flow one by one above us,
The hours go silently over our lifted faces,
We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea.
Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together.
We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee.
Song of the Driftweed
© Jessie Mackay
HERES to the home that was never, never ours!
Toast it full and fairly when the winter lowers.
Pharsalia - Book VI: The Fight Near Dyrhachium. Scaeva's Exploits. The Witch Of Thessalia.
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
Now that the chiefs with minds intent on fight
Had drawn their armies near upon the hills
Vision
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
I have not walked on common ground,
Nor drunk of earthly streams;
A shining figure, mailed and crowned,
Moves softly through my dreams.
Summer Is Dying
© Hayyim Nahman Bialik
Summer is dying in the purple and gold and russet
of the falling leaves of the wood,
and the sunset clouds are dying
in their own blood.
'GS' [or the Fourth Cook]
© Henry Lawson
And he peels em hard to Plymouth, peels em fast to drown his grief,
Peels em while his stomach sickens on the road to Teneriffe;
Peels em while the donkey rattles, peels em while the engine thuds,
By the time they touch at Cape Town hes a don at peeling spuds
(And he finds some time for dreaming as he gets on with the spuds).
A Toast
© Stéphane Mallarme
Nothing, this foam, virgin verse
Depicting the chalice alone:
Far off a band of Sirens drown
Many of them head first.
