All Poems
/ page 849 of 3210 /
Good Friday, A.D. 33
© Katharine Tynan
Mother, why are people crowding now and staring?
Child, it is a malefactor goes to His doom,
To the high hill of Calvary He's faring,
And the people pressing and pushing to make room
Lest they miss the sight to come.
An Epigram On The Same Occasion.
© Mary Barber
So little giv'n at Chapel Door!--
This People doubtless must be poor:
So much at Gaming thrown away!--
No Nation sure so rich as they.
An Heroical Epistle of Hudibras to Sidrophel
© Samuel Butler
Ecce Iterum Crispinus. -
WELL! SIDROPHEL, though 'tis in vain
Swallow
© Padraic Colum
HE knows Queen Lab, her isle,
And black, enormous Kaf,
The Swallow, and "Allah"
He cries
Of The Nature Of Things: Book IV - Part 05 - The Passion Of Love
© Lucretius
This craving 'tis that's Venus unto us:
From this, engender all the lures of love,
The Queen Of Hearts
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we
Play cards together, you invariably,
However the pack parts,
Still hold the Queen of Hearts?
Just After The War
© Anonymous
O! I am a conscript
O! how I do wish
That I had stayed away up North
And kept out of the "milish."
The Accounte Of W. Canynges Feast
© Thomas Chatterton
THOROWE the halle the belle han sounde;
Byelecoyle doe the Grave beseeme;
Port Bou
© Stephen Spender
As a child holds a pet,
Arms clutching but with hands that do not join,
And the coiled animal watches the gap
To outer freedom in animal air,
Elegiac Stanzas
© William Lisle Bowles
When I lie musing on my bed alone,
And listen to the wintry waterfall;
And many moments that are past and gone,
Moments of sunshine and of joy, recall;
Bryant On His Birthday
© John Greenleaf Whittier
We praise not now the poet's art,
The rounded beauty of his song;
Who weighs him from his life apart
Must do his nobler nature wrong.
The Companionable Ills
© Sylvia Plath
The nose-end that twitches, the old imperfections--
Tolerable now as moles on the face
Put up with until chagrin gives place
To a wry complaisance--
Belgium
© Edith Wharton
Not with her ruined silver spires,
Not with her cities shamed and rent,
Perish the imperishable fires
That shape the homestead from the tent.
At The Commencement Dinner
© James Russell Lowell
'Tis a dreadful oppression, this making men speak
What they're sure to be sorry for all the next week;
Some poor stick requesting, like Aaron's, to bud
Into eloquence, pathos, or wit in cold blood,
As if the dull brain that you vented your spite on
Could be got, like an ox, by mere poking, to Brighton.
Heroes
© John Jay Chapman
I SEE them hasting toward the light
Where war's dim watchfires glow;
The stars that burn in Europe's night
Conduct them to the foe.
An Odd Conceit
© Nicholas Breton
Lovely kind, and kindly loving,
Such a mind were worth the moving;
Truly fair, and fairly true-
Where are all these, but in you?
The Dirge
© John Le Gay Brereton
Out of the pregnant darkness, where from fire
To glimmering fire the watchword leaps,
The dirge floats up from those who build the pyre
High and still higher
That yet shall blaze across the verminous deeps.
