All Poems
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As the Team's Head- Brass
© Edward Thomas
As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed the angle of the fallow, and
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude V.
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A strain of music closed the tale,
A low, monotonous, funeral wail,
That with its cadence, wild and sweet,
Made the long Saga more complete.
Adlestrop
© Edward Thomas
Yes, I remember Adlestrop --
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
A Private
© Edward Thomas
This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
A Cameo
© Madison Julius Cawein
Why speak of Giamschid rubies
Whence rosy starlight drips?
I know a richer crimson,--
The ruby of her lips.
A Cat
© Edward Thomas
She had a name among the children;
But no one loved though someone owned
Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime
And had her kittens duly drowned.
On Himself
© John Donne
My fortune and my choice this custom break,
When we are speechless grown to make stones speak.
Autobiography
© Dorothy Parker
Oh, both my shoes are shiny new,
And pristine is my hat;
My dress is 1922….
My life is all like that.
Italy : 8. The Brothers
© Samuel Rogers
In the same hour the breath of life receiving,
They came together and were beautiful;
But, as they slumbered in their mother's lap,
How mournful was their beauty! She would sit,
His Santa Claus
© Edgar Albert Guest
He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy,
An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy;
Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head,
And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed,
But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance;
This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.
A Sketch
© George Gordon Byron
But to the theme, now laid aside too long,
The baleful burthen of this honest song,
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
Sunthin' In The Pastoral Line
© James Russell Lowell
Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,
An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',
When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,
An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four,
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.
Outgrown
© Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr
Nay, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown:
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.
The Moon Maiden's Song
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
Sleep! Cast thy canopy
Over this sleeper's brain,
Dim grow his memory,
When he wake again.
Poor Mailie's Elegy
© Robert Burns
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears tricklin down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,
Past a' remead!
The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead!
The Swamp Angel
© Anonymous
Angels of good and ill are every where;
They haunt the city and the cottage lone;
Their seen or unseen presence fills the air,
And feels the stir of every laugh and moan.
"Sometimes I think the happiest of love's moments"
© Lesbia Harford
Sometimes I think the happiest of love's moments
Is the blest moment of release from loving.
The world once more is all one's own to model
Upon one's own and not another's pattern.
The Crying Water
© Arthur Symons
O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry.
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.
