All Poems
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The Treasure-digger
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
ALL my weary days I pass'dSick at heart and poor in purse.Poverty's the greatest curse,Riches are the highest good!
And to end my woes at last,Treasure-seeking forth I sped."Thou shalt have my soul instead!"Thus I wrote, and with my blood.Ring round ring I forthwith drew,Wondrous flames collected there,Herbs and bones in order fair,Till the charm had work'd aright.
Then, to learned precepts true,Dug to find some treasure old,In the place my art foretoldBlack and stormy was the night.Coming o'er the distant plain,With the glimmer of a star,Soon I saw a light afar,As the hour of midnight knell'd.
Preparation was in vain.Sudden all was lighted upWith the lustre of a cupThat a beauteous boy upheld.Sweetly seem'd his eves to laughNeath his flow'ry chaplet's load;With the drink that brightly glow'd,He the circle enter'd in.
A Retrospective Review
© Thomas Hood
Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!
The Visit.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
While at work had slumber stolen o'er her;
For her knitting and her needle found I
Resting in her folded bands so tender;
And I placed myself beside her softly,
And held counsel, whether I should wake her.
To-day
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide
The resurrection of departed pride.
Spirit Song Over The Waters.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Cliffs projecting
Oppose its progress,--
Angrily foams it
Down to the bottom,
Step by step.
The Faithless Boy.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
As though his bride were she,
A poor young maiden had caress'd,
And fondly kiss'd, and fondly press'd,
Occasion'd By Reading The Memoirs Of Anne Of Austria
© Mary Barber
Ye heedless Fair, who pass the live--long Day,
In Dress and Scandal, Gallantry and Play;
Who thro' new Scenes of Pleasure hourly run,
Whilst Life's important Business is undone;
Look here, when guilty Conquests make you vain,
And see, how sad Remorse shuts up the Scene.
Trilogy of Passion: II. ELEGY.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now
In the still-closed blossoms of this day?
Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;
What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play
No longer doubt! Descending from the sky,
She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
Sonnet 55: Muses, I Oft Invoked
© Sir Philip Sidney
Muses, I oft invoked your hold aid,
With choicest flow'rs my speech t'engarland so
That it, despis'd in true by naked show,
Might win some grace in your sweet grace array'd.
On The New Year
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
------
What we sing in company
Soon from heart to heart will fly.
-----
Louvain 19
© Robert Laurence Binyon
ii
But from that blood, those ashes there arose
Not hoped-for terror cowering as it ran,
But divine anger flaming upon those
Defamers of the very name of man,
Hans Sachs' Poetical Mission.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Soon as the spring-sun meets his view,
Repose begets him labour anew;
He feels that he holds within his brain
A little world, that broods there amain,
And that begins to act and to live,
Which he to others would gladly give.
Water-bailing
© Ho Xuan Huong
Not a drop of rain for this dry heat!
Come, girls, let's go bail water.
The Shepherd's Lament.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
ON yonder lofty mountainA thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,Look down on the smiling land.My grazing flocks then I follow,My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,But how, I scarcely can tell.The whole of the meadow is cover'dWith flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowingTo whom the offering to bear.In rain and storm and tempest,I tarry beneath the tree,
What Matters It?
© George Frederick Cameron
What matters it the spot we fill
On Earth's green sod when all is said?
When feet and hands and heart are still
And all our pulses quieted?
When hate or love can kill nor thrill,
When we are done with life and dead?
Niobe
© John Donne
By children's births, and death, I am become
So dry, that I am now mine own sad tomb.
The Rule Of Life.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,
Let not the past torment thee e'er;
As little as possible be thou annoy'd,
And let the present be ever enjoy'd;
Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,
And to God the future confide.
