All Poems
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Raison D'Etre
© Edith Nesbit
What is the day? A frame of blue
The vacant-glaring sun grins through.
What is the night? A sable veil
Through which the moon peers tired and pale.
Summer Afternoon (Bodiam Castle, Sussex)
© Edith Wharton
And this was thine: to lose thyself in me,
Relive in my renewal, and become
The light of other lives, a quenchless torch
Passed on from hand to hand, till men are dust
And the last garland withers from my shrine.
Lament.
© Arthur Henry Adams
PEACE, your little child is dead:
Peace, I cannot weep with you;
I have no more tears to shed;
I have mourned my baby too
The Singing Of The Magnificat
© Edith Nesbit
IN midst of wide green pasture-lands, cut through
By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams,
Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew,
And rest and peace, and all the flowers of dreams,
The Abbey stood--so still, it seemed a part
Of the marsh-country's almost pulseless heart.
La Jeune Captive
© André Marie de Chénier
'L'épi naissant mûrit de la faux respecté;
Sans crainte du pressoir, le pampre tout l'été
Boit les doux présents de l'aurore;
Et moi, comme lui belle, et jeune comme lui,
Quoi que l'heure présente ait de trouble et d'ennui,
Je ne veux point mourir encore.
A Lament For The Princes Of Tyrone And Tyrconnel
© James Clarence Mangan
O WOMAN of the piercing wail,
Who mournest oer yon mound of clay
The Torch
© Walt Whitman
ON my northwest coast in the midst of the night, a fishermen's group
stands watching;
Out on the lake, that expands before them, others are spearing
salmon;
The canoe, a dim shadowy thing, moves across the black water,
Bearing a Torch a-blaze at the prow.
The Test
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Now no man's loss is private: all share all.
Oh, each of us a soldier stands to--day,
Put to the proof and summoned to the call;
One will, one faith, one peril. Hearts, be high,
Most in the hour that's darkest! Come what may,
The soul in us is found, and shall not die.
A College Career
© Robert Fuller Murray
I
When one is young and eager,
A bejant and a boy,
Though his moustache be meagre,
The Manor Garden
© Sylvia Plath
The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.
Elegy XXVI. Describing the Sorrow of An Ingeneous Mind
© William Shenstone
Why mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye,
That eye where mirth, where fancy, used to shine?
Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.
Love and Honor
© William Shenstone
Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra
Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Haemus,
The Age of Wisdom
© William Makepeace Thackeray
Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the Barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
The Wood-Cutter
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
We came behind him by the wall,
My brethren drew their brands,
And they had strength to strike him down--
And I to bind his hands.
An Interregnum
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
LOUD trumpets blow among the naked pines,
Fine spun as sere-cloth rent from royal dead.
Villanelle of His Ladys Treasures
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
I took her dainty eyes, as well
As silken tendrils of her hair:
The Ruined Homestead
© Roland Robinson
White birds, frightened from silver grass,
whose blood-rose breasts and wings are thrown
like petals settling down the pass,
flower the ruined homesteads stone.
