All Poems
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Flower-De-Luce
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
Or solitary mere,
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
Its waters to the weir!
The Princess: A Medley: O Swallow
© Alfred Tennyson
O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.
Sunday Dip
© John Clare
The morning road is thronged with merry boys
Who seek the water for their Sunday joys;
Beeny Cliff [March 1870 - March 1913]
© Thomas Hardy
I
O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free -
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
To The British Channel
© Robert Bloomfield
Roll, roll thy white waves, and enveloped in foam,
Pour thy tides round the echoing shore;
Thou guard of Old Englandmy country, my home!
And my soul shall rejoice in the roar!
First Communions
© Arthur Rimbaud
Truly, theyre stupid, these village churches
Where fifteen ugly chicks soiling the pillars
Listen, trilling out their divine responses,
To a black freak whose boots stink of cellars:
But the sun wakes now, through the branches,
The irregular stained-glasss ancient colours.
Sweet Is The Solace Of Thy Love
© Anna Laetitia Waring
Sweet is the solace of Thy love,
My Heavenly Friend, to me,
While through the hidden way of faith
I journey home with Thee,
Learning by quiet thankfulness
As a dear child to be.
Studies at Delhi, 1876
© Alfred Comyn Lyall
Here as I sit by the Jumna bank,
Watching the flow of the sacred stream,
Pass me the legions, rank on rank,
And the cannon roar, and the bayonets gleam.
Wood Magic
© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
The woods lay dreaming in a topaz dream,
And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,
Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,
Where life was love, and love was all a-gleam.
The Man To Follow
© William Henry Ogilvie
Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth,
Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins,
Not Crossing Bridges
© Edgar Albert Guest
MEBBE I shall weep tomorrow,
Mebbe I shall lose my job,
Mebbe bowed in grief and sorrow
I shall sit alone and sob.
Falling Stars.
© Robert Crawford
Only a falling star!
What was it to him
If millions of mortals were
Hurled down the dim
In The Harbour: Chimes
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sweet chimes! that in the loneliness of night
Salute the passing hour, and in the dark
Letter To Maria Gisborne
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
The spider spreads her webs, whether she be
In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;
The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves
His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;
The Author Upon Himself
© Jonathan Swift
By an old pursued,
A crazy prelate, and a royal prude;
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise;
The Face
© Hilaire Belloc
A face Sir Joshua might have painted! Yea:
Sir Joshua painted anything for pay . . .
And after all you're painted every day.
The Village Beauty
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE glowing tints of a tropic eve,
Burn on her radiant cheek,
And we know that her voice is rich and low,
Though we never have heard her speak;
Elegy V
© Henry James Pye
Thee, sad Melpomene, I once again
Invoke, nor ask the idly plaintive verse:
The Wind didn't come from the Orchardtoday
© Emily Dickinson
The Wind didn't come from the Orchardtoday
Further than that
Nor stop to play with the Hay
Nor joggle a Hat
He's a transitive fellowvery
Rely on that
