All Poems

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Lady Fair

© Francis Ledwidge

Lady fair, have we not met

In our lives elsewhere ?

Requiescit

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

His name is cut upon a stone. His dreams
Were written on Time's hem; and Time has fled
And taken him and them. The grass is green
Upon his grave. I cannot doubt he sleeps.

The Future.

© Caroline Norton

I WAS a laughing child, and gaily dwelt

Where murmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers roll'd,

Confessio Amantis. Explicit Prologus

The Rose And Thorn

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

SHE'S loveliest of the festal throng
In delicate form and Grecian face;
A beautiful, incarnate song;
A marvel of harmonious grace;

The Cradle

© Henry Austin Dobson

HOW steadfastly she worked at it!

How lovingly had drest

Before You Came

© Faiz Ahmed Faiz

tum jo naa aa'e the to har chiiz vahii thii kih jo hai
aasmaaN hadd-e-nazar, raahguzar raahguzar, shiishaah-e-mai,
shiishaah-e-mai

Dejection

© Leon Gellert

Point thy battered prow to the dark shore

Thou hoary son of Erebus, and dip thy blades

Sonnet -- The Peasant

© Mary Darby Robinson

WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,
Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath
Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath,
Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.

The Triumph Of Melancholy

© James Beattie

Memory, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable dye?
Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,
To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye?

There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He'd written treatises and themes till, "For a change," he said,
"I think I'll write a children's book before I go to bed."

From The Inverted Torch: When In The First Great Hour

© Edith Matilda Thomas

Yet as some muser, when the embers fall,
The low lamp flickers out, starts up dismayed,
So I awoke, to find me still Times thrall,
Times sport,nor by thy warm, safe presence stayed.

Among the Flags

© Louise Imogen Guiney

And as fair symbols of heroic things,
Not void of tears mine eyes must e'en behold
These banners lovelier as the deeper marred:
A panegyric never writ for kings
On every tarnished staff and tattered fold;
And by them, tranquil spirits standing guard.

Nothing and Something

It is nothing to me, the young man cried:
In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride;
I heed not the dreadful things ye tell:
I can rule myself I know full well.

Margaret Of Cortona

I rave, you say? You start from me, Fra Paolo?
Go, then; your going leaves me not alone.
I marvel, rather, that I feared the question,
Since, now I name it, it draws near to me
With such dear reassurance in its eyes,
And takes your place beside me. . .

To Some Ladies

© John Keats

What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiasts friend: