All Poems

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Sonnet to Evening

© Mary Darby Robinson


SWEET BALMY HOUR! ­dear to the pensive mind,
Oft have I watch'd thy dark and weeping shade,
Oft have I hail'd thee in the dewy glade,
And drop'd a tear of SYMPATHY refin'd.

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Ode To Sleep

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

With a gray fleetness, moaning the dead day;
The wings of Silence overfolding space,
Droop with dusk grandeur from the heavenly steep,
And through the stillness gleams thy starry face,
Serenest Angel--Sleep!

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Sonnet to Amicus

© Mary Darby Robinson

WHOE'ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
To whom the sounds of melody belong,
Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow;

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Sonnet IX: Ye, Who in Alleys Green

© Mary Darby Robinson

Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs,
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours;

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The Star

© Edith Nesbit

I said, "Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold,
I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold.
It is time to sing of my star!" for I dreamed that my star still shone,
Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone.

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Sonnet IV: Why, When I Gaze

© Mary Darby Robinson

Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?
Why does each fainting faculty decay,
And my chill'd breast in throbbing tumults rise?

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To The Proof Room

© Bert Leston Taylor

"O MEN of dark and dismal fate,"
  A prey to typographic terrors,
O you who labor long and late,
  Correcting other people's errors --
Think not I do not realize
How much I owe your Argus-eyes.

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Sonnet III: Turn to Yon Vale Beneath

© Mary Darby Robinson

Turn to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade
Excludes the blazing torch of noon-day light,
Where sportive Fawns, and dimpled Loves invite,
The bow'r of Pleasure opens to the glade:

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A Passing Hail

© James Whitcomb Riley

Let us rest ourselves a bit!
Worry?- wave your hand to it -
Kiss your finger-tips and smile
It farewell a little while.

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Sonnet II: High on a Rock

© Mary Darby Robinson

High on a rock, coaeval with the skies,
A Temple stands, rear'd by immortal pow'rs
To Chastity divine! ambrosial flow'rs
Twining round icicles, in columns rise,

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The Church of Unbent Knees

© Christopher Morley

AS I went by the church to-day
I heard the organ cry;
And goodly folk were on their knees,
But I went striding by.

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Sonnet I: Favour'd by Heav'n

© Mary Darby Robinson

Favour'd by Heav'n are those, ordain'd to taste
The bliss supreme that kindles fancy's fire;
Whose magic fingers sweep the muses' lyre,
In varying cadence, eloquently chaste!

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Conscience

© Robert Southwell

My conscience is my crown;
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.

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Second Ode to the Nightingale

© Mary Darby Robinson

BLEST be thy song, sweet NIGHTINGALE,
Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale !
Where oft I've heard thy dulcet strain
In mournful melody complain;

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Blackmwore Maidens

© William Barnes

THE PRIMRWOSE in the shade do blow, 
The cowslip in the zun, 
The thyme upon the down do grow, 
The clote where streams do run; 

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Rinaldo to Laura Maria

© Mary Darby Robinson

There tell me I am most despis'd,
E'en by thyself, whom most I priz'd,
So shall I gladly welcome fate,
And perish in thy perfect hate:
So shall I better bear th' eternal pain,
Never to see thy Form, or hear thy Voice again.

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Brother Benedict

© Alfred Austin

Brother Benedict rose and left his cell

With the last slow swing of the evening bell.

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Poor Marguerite

© Mary Darby Robinson

She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smil'd to see the morning light,
For then she cried, "I soon shall meet
"The plighted love of MARGUERITE."

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Pastoral Stanzas

© Mary Darby Robinson

WHEN AURORA'S soft blushes o'erspread the blue hill,
And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.

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Wha Is That At My Bower-Door

© Robert Burns

"Wha is that at my bower-door?"

"O wha is it but Findlay!"