All Poems

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He That Is Down Need Fear No Fall

© Louisa May Alcott

He that is down need fear no fall,
He that is low no pride.
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.

To Charles Cowden Clarke

© John Keats

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright
So silently, it seems a beam of light

The Harvest

© Aristophanes

Oh, 'tis sweet, when fields are ringing

With the merry cricket's singing,

The Poet To Nature

© Alice Meynell

I have no secrets from thee, lyre sublime,
My lyre whereof I make my melody.
I sing one way like the west wind through thee,
With my whole heart, and hear thy sweet strings chime.

Where the Ponies Come to Drink

© Henry Herbert Knibbs

Up in Northern Arizona

there's a Ranger-trail that passes

Adventure of a Poet

© Robert Fuller Murray

As I was walking down the street
A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
A man I know.

The Song Of Loved Ones

© Edgar Albert Guest

The father toils at his work all day,

And he hums this song as he plods away:

Die Schoene Von Hinten

© Gotthold Ephraim Lessing

Sieh Freund! sieh da! was geht doch immer

Dort fuer ein reizend Frauenzimmer?

The Sage

© Harriet Monroe

Sequoia, growing grandly
Out of the long ago,
Beloved of Time, whose sons
March by to measures slow,
How tenderly you cherish
All little lives below!

To Peace

© Katharine Lee Bates

THE cup, the ruby cup
Whence anguish drips,
At last is lifted up
Against our lips.

To My Cousin, Anne Bodham, On Receiving From Her A Network Purse, Made By Herself

© William Cowper

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,--
I thank thee for my purse.

Invocation

© Mathilde Blind

BREATHE thro' me in music,
Spirit of the time!
Pregnant with the future,
Spirit of the time!

Report On Tait's Lecture On Force

© James Clerk Maxwell

While you, brave Tait! who know so well the way
Forces to scatter,
Calmly await the slow but sure decay,
Even of Matter.

Anonymous Plays:XVI - Arden of Feversham

MOTHER whose womb brought forth our man of men,

Mother of Shakespeare, whom all time acclaims

Written In A Fit Of Illness. R. S. S.

In these sad hours, a prey to ceaseless pain,

While feverish pulses leap in every vein,

Sonnet I

Oft had I felt, like pure Endymion,
Such love for the sweet moon, that I had well
Believed her able on earth to love and dwell
With whatso man she set her love upon;