All Poems
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Don Juan: Canto The Seventh
© George Gordon Byron
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
HE IS NOT A POET
I would not, if I could, be called a poet.
I have no natural love of the ``chaste muse.''
If aught be worth the doing I would do it;
Church-Lock And Key
© George Herbert
I know it is my sinne, which locks thine eares,
And bindes thy hands!
Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;
Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands.
Ode I: The Remonstrance Of Shakespeare
© Mark Akenside
If, yet regardful of your native land,
Old Shakespeare's tongue you deign to understand,
The Shepheardes Calender: September
© Edmund Spenser
Hobbinol.
Diggon Dauie, I bidde her god day:
Or Diggon her is, or I missaye.
The Ox tamer
© Walt Whitman
IN a faraway northern county, in the placid, pastoral region,
Lives my farmer friend, the theme of my recitative, a famous Tamer of
The Inca
© Louisa Stuart Costello
'Tis eve, the sun is sinking in the lake
The lake, all glorious with his golden beams,
A Desolate Shore
© William Ernest Henley
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Stonewall Jackson
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE fashions and the forms of men decay,
The seasons perish, the calm sunsets die,
Ne'er with the same bright pomp of cloud or ray
To flush the golden pathways of the sky;
The Prisoner
© Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov
THERE, where the swift Rhone's waters flow
Its verdant banks between;
Geometry
© John Crowe Ransom
Hickory shoots unnumbered rise,
Sallow and wasting themselves in sighs,
Children begot at a criminal rate
In the sight of a God that is profligate.
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto II.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
IV A Distinction
The lack of lovely pride, in her
Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs,
And still the maid I most prefer
Whose care to please with pleasing comes.
Them Flowers
© James Whitcomb Riley
Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf,
All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore--
The Seagull
© Herbert Bashford
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
Hudibras: Part 2 - Canto I
© Samuel Butler
Quoth she, I grant it is in vain.
For one that's basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure:
Yet honor hurt, is wont to rage
With pain no med'cine can asswage.
The Pirates in England
© Rudyard Kipling
When Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall,
And the sceptre passed from her hand,
The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall
To harry the English land.
Epitaphs Translated From Chiabrera
© William Wordsworth
I
WEEP not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life
Sabbath Sonnet
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!
Harps We Love
© Henry Kendall
The harp we love hath a royal burst!
Its strings are mighty forest trees;
And branches, swaying to and fro,
Are fingers sounding symphonies.
