All Poems
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A Wreath Of Sonnets (14/14)
© France Preseren
Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near,
Like roses when the winter's passed away,
And spring displays its marvellous array,
While through the trees white scattered blossoms peer.
Water-Fowl Observed Frequently Over The Lakes Of Rydal And Grasmere
© William Wordsworth
MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood,
With grace of motion that might scarcely seem
Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
The Artist
© Roderic Quinn
THE year has turned the corner,
Cold June is with the dead,
And Spring, the singing artist,
Is mixing gold and red.
Dedicatory
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Beauty is One. But that so equal gold,
Run in the apt and kindly difference
Barcarola (#2)
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
OLTRE tomba
Qualche cosa?
E che ne dici?
Saremo felici?
Terra mai posa,
E mar rimbomba.
A Bunch Of Triolets
© Robert Fuller Murray
You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like the trifling triolet.
On A Miser, 3 (From The Greek)
© William Cowper
Art thou some individual of a kind
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind?
Response
© Madison Julius Cawein
There is a music of immaculate love,
That breathes within the virginal veins of Spring:--
The Morning Dream, A Ballad. To The Tune Of 'Tweed Side.'
© William Cowper
'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
A Sea Dialogue
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
MAN AT WHEEL.
Belay y'r jaw, y' swab! y' hoss-marine!
(To the Captain.)
Ay, ay, Sir! Stiddy, Sir! Sou'wes' b' sou'!
They Choose Not Ill Their Lot Who Choose
© John Kenyon
They choose not ill their lot who choose
All quietly to live and die,
We Are To Play The Game Of Death
© Rabindranath Tagore
WE are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.
The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the waves are raving at sea.
The Age Of Gold
© Madison Julius Cawein
The clouds that tower in storm, that beat
Arterial thunder in their veins;
The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
Their perfect faces from the plains,-
All high, all lowly things of Earth
For no vague end have had their birth.
Quaker Hill
© Hart Crane
Perspective never withers from their eyes;
They keep that docile edict of the Spring
Long-Felt Desires
© Louise Labe
Long-felt desires, hopes as long as vain--
sad sighs--slow tears accustomed to run sad
into as many rivers as two eyes could add,
pouring like fountains, endless as the rain--
Unyielding
© Rabindranath Tagore
In the fierce harsh storms of Baisakh,
Golden ripened fruit fell tumbling.
'Dust, I said, 'defiles such offerings:
Let your hands be heaven to them.'
Still you showed no friendliness.
War And Peace
© Franklin Pierce Adams
"This war is a terrible thing," he said,
"With its countless numbers of needless dead;
A futile warfare it seems to me,
Fought for no principle I can see.
Alas, that thousands of hearts should bleed
For naught but a tyrant's boundless greed!"
The Old Dutch Oven
© Arthur Chapman
Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all t was with the X-Bar-T.
And when we heard the grub-pile call at morning, noon, and night,
The old Dutch oven never failed to cook the things just right.
Sickness
© John Crowe Ransom
God plucked him back, and plucked him back,
And did his best to smoothe the pain.
The sick man said it was good to know
That God was true, if prayer was vain.
SONNET. I prethee turn that face away
© Henry King
I prethee turn that face away
Whose splendour but benights my day.
Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts
Shun the bright rayes which beauty darts.
