All Poems
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My Friend
© Khalil Gibran
My friend, I am not what I seem. Seeming is but a garment I wear--a
care-woven garment that protects me from thy questionings and thee
from my negligence.
On The Decline Of Faith
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
AS in some half-burned forest, one by one,
We catch far echoes on the doleful breeze,
Born of the downfall of its ruined trees;
While even thro' those which stand, slow shudderings run,
Reunited
© Edgar Albert Guest
The hours were long with you away,
Although I thought I could forget;
I banished you and cursed the day
That we had ever met.
A Dream Of Good
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
To take my place in the world's brotherhood
As one prepared to suffer all its fate;
To do and be undone for sake of good,
And conquer rage by giving love for hate;
That were a noble dream, and so to cease,
Scorned by the proud but with the poor at peace.
The Old Water Mill
© Madison Julius Cawein
Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise,
Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies
Courage
© Peter McArthur
THE dead are buried facing to the sun,
In foolish epitaphs their faith is told,
Love's Gifts
© Marian Osborne
BELOVED, can I make return to thee
For all the gifts which thy rich heart doth hold,
From the Somme
© Leslie Coulson
In other days I sang of simple things,
Of summer dawn, and summer noon and night,
The dewy grass, the dew wet fairy rings,
The larks long golden flight.
To his unconstant Friend
© Henry King
But say thou very woman, why to me
This fit of weakness and inconstancie?
What forfeit have I made of word or vow,
That I am rack't on thy displeasure now?
As much as spring is more delightful than winter
© Theocritus
As much as spring is more delightful than winter,
As much as the apple than the sloe,
As much as the sheep is more woolly than its lambkin,
As much as a virgin is better than a thrice-wed dame,
If I Could Write Words
© Spike Milligan
If I could write words
Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,
What a bonfire my letters would make.
In The Valley
© Henry Kendall
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
After The Tornado
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
Yon mountain height fades in its cloud-girt pall;
The prostrate wood lies smirched with rain and mire;
Through the shorn fields the brook whirls, wild and white;
While o'er the turbulent waste and woodland fall,
Glares the red sunrise, blurred with mists of fire!
Memory
© Leon Gellert
The tangled twilight of your hair
Blew soft against my face,
Ah! We were young and you were fair,
This was the time
And this the place.
Mountaineer-Song
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Deep in a glen, retir'd and green,
How sweetly smiles my native cot;
Where peace, and joy, and love serene,
Have sanctified the tranquil spot!
"If I Must Go"
© Sara Teasdale
IF I must go to heaven's end
Climbing the ages like a stair,
Be near me and forever bend
With the same eyes above me there;
Italy : 42. Naples
© Samuel Rogers
This region, surely, is not of the earth.
Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove,
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot
Sea-worn and mantled with a gadding vine,
