All Poems

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A Weeping Cupid

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

Why, Love! I thought you were gay and fair,

Merry of mien and debonair.

The Looking-Glass. : on Mrs. Pulteney

© Alexander Pope

With scornful mien, and various toss of air,

Fantastic vain, and insolently fair,

Lines For A Scrap-Book

© John Kenyon

IN WHICH THE WORD FINIS WAS PAINTED IN ROSES.

Italy : 37. The Fire-Fly

© Samuel Rogers

There is an Insect, that, when Evening comes,
Small though he be, scarcely distinguishable,
Like Evening clad in soberest livery,
Unsheaths his wings and thro' the woods and glades

In Spring, Santa Barbara

© Sara Teasdale

I HAVE been happy two weeks together,
My love is coming home to me,
Gold and silver is the weather
And smooth as lapis is the sea.

Sonnet XXXVII: Delia, These Eyes

© Samuel Daniel

Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine

Have seen those walls the which ambition rear'd

Kha

© Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev

Beautiful lassies, where are you now?
You who dont answer me anymore
You who forgot all about me;
Left me behind now my weakened voice
Wakes up the echo in vain.

The Triumph of Dead : Chap. 1

© Mary Sidney Herbert

That gallant lady, gloriously bright,

The stately pillar once of worthiness,

A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An Infant Of Twelve Months

© Phillis Wheatley

Through airy roads he wings his instant flight

To purer regions of celestial light;

The Dream

© Arthur Symons

O, if the world I make

With these eyes be a dream

Sunset

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edge
And peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;
High in his hand he held a blazing lamp,
Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.

"The Memory Of Joys That Are Past." Ossian.

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans

THERE is an hour, a pensive hour;
(And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!)
It is, when twilight spreads her veil,
And steals along the silent dale;

De la rue on entend sa plaintive chanson

De la rue on entend sa plaintive chanson.
Pâle et rousse, le teint plein de taches de son,
Elle coud, de profil, assise à sa fenêtre.
Très sage et sachant bien qu'elle est laide peut-être,

Mother And Son

Now sleeps the land of houses,

and dead night holds the street,

'Tis in the mind that Beauty stands confess'd,
In all the noblest pride of glory dress'd,
Where virtue's rules the conscious bosom arm,
There to our eyes she spreads her brightest charm:
There all her rays, with force collected, shine,
Proclaim her worth, and speak her race divine.