All Poems
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 11:
© Conrad Aiken
Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares
With purple lights in the canyoned street.
The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .
The trodden grass in the park is covered with white,
The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . .
The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night.
The Eyes
© Ezra Pound
Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary
And would feel the fingers of the wind
Upon these lids that lie over us
Sodden and lead-heavy.
The Little Church
© Edgar Albert Guest
The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat
With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat-
A Street Corner
© Robert Fuller Murray
Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle
Of ninety degrees (this angle is right),
You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle
Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night;
Sylvan Musings.In May.
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
COUCHED in cool shadow, girt by billowy swells,
Of foliage, rippling into buds and flowers,
Here I repose o'erfanned by breezy bowers,--
Lulled by a delicate stream whose music wells
The Disciple
© Oscar Wilde
When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of
sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping
through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it
comfort.
Pan The Fallen
© William Wilfred Campbell
He wandered into the market
With pipes and goatish hoof;
He wandered in a grotesque shape,
And no one stood aloof.
Ruth
© Henry Lawson
Are the fields of my fancy less fair through a window thats narrowed and barred?
Are the morning stars dimmed by the glare of the gas-light that flares in the yard?
No! And what does it matter to me if to-morrow I sail from the land?
I am free, as I never was free! I exult in my loneliness grand!
Moonlight On The Door
© William Barnes
A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head,
Above the slopèn thatch did ply,
Yours be yon dew-steep'd roses
© Theocritus
Yours be yon dew-steep'd roses, yours be yon
Thick-clustering ivy, maids of Helicon:
Thine, Pythian Paean, that dark-foliaged bay;
With such thy Delphian crags thy front array.
This horn'd and shaggy ram shall stain thy shrine,
Who crops e'en now the feathering turpentine.
On His Own Face In A Glass
© Ezra Pound
O strange face there in the glass!
O ribald company, O saintly host,
A Second Letter From B. Sawin, Esq.
© James Russell Lowell
I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me,
Exacly ware I be myself,--meanin' by thet the holl o' me.
A Father's Thought
© Edgar Albert Guest
They say the little fellow looks like me,
But I'm hoping he'll be better than I've been,
The Hawthorn Bower
© John Cunningham
Palemnon, in the hawthorn bower,
With fond impatience lay,
He counted every anxious hour
That stretch'd the tedious day.
On Sarah Stonhouse, Second Wife Of The Rev. Sir James Stonhouse, Bart.
© Hannah More
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart,
And write, prepare to die on every heart.
Kate Kearney
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
How many share such destiny,
How many, lured by fancy's beam,
Ask the impossible to be,
And pine, the victims of a dream.
To Amanda
© James Thomson
Unless with my Amanda bless'd,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower.
