All Poems
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Hymn XVII: Jesus, From Whom All Blessings Grow
© Charles Wesley
Jesus, from whom all blessings flow,
Great builder of thy church below,
If now thy Spirit moves my breast,
Hear, and fulfil thine own request!
"I Love You Sweatheart"
© Thomas Lux
A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
Prologue To Spring
© Sylvia Plath
The winter landscape hangs in balance now,
Transfixed by glare of blue from gorgon's eye;
The skaters freese within a stone tableau.
Upon Watts' Picture Sic Transit
© John McCrae
But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life,
The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,
The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife;
To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.
Unsolved
© John McCrae
Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Then And Now
© John McCrae
Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Sonnet XXVII: Oft and In Vain
© Samuel Daniel
Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventur'd
To stop the passage of my vanquisht heart,
The Warrior
© John McCrae
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.
The Englishman
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some of us harbour still
The Unconquered Dead
© John McCrae
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame
Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.
Victoria
© Alfred Austin
The lark went up, the mower whet his scythe,
On golden meads kine ruminating lay,
And all the world felt young again and blithe,
Just as to-day.
The Song Of The Derelict
© John McCrae
Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes
(I scorn your beguiling, O sea!)
Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes.
(A treacherous lover, the sea!)
Song Of Songs
© Wilfred Owen
Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.
The Pilgrims
© John McCrae
An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,
Where every beam that broke the leaden sky
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;
Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:
And this was Life.
The Oldest Drama
© John McCrae
"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad,
Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .
And shut the door upon him and went out."
The Gay Gordons
© Sir Henry Newbolt
(Dargai, October 20, 1897)
Whos for the Gathering, who's for the Fair?
The Night Cometh
© John McCrae
Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro:
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children strayed away
But found again, and folded so.
On The Death Of Rebecca
© George Moses Horton
Thou delicate blossom; thy short race is ended,
Thou sample of virtue and prize of the brave!
No more are thy beauties by mortals attended,
They now are but food for the worms and the grave.
