Beauty poems
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Sonnet XVI. November
© Hartley Coleridge
The mellow year is hasting to its close;The little birds have almost sung their last,Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows:The patient beauty of the scentless rose,Oft with the Morn's hoar chrystal quaintly glass'd,Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,And makes a little summer where it grows:In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief dayThe dusky waters shudder as they shine,The russet leaves obstruct the straggling wayOf oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine
Night among the Thousand Islands
© Coleman Helena Jane
Mysterious falls the moon's transforming light On lichen-covered rock and granite wall,Comes piercing through the hollows of the night The loon's weird, plaintive call.
The Lament of the Forest
© Cole Thomas
In joyous Summer, when the exulting earthFlung fragrance from innumerable flowersThrough the wide wastes of heaven, as on she tookIn solitude her everlasting way,I stood among the mountain heights, alone!The beauteous mountains, which the voyagerOn Hudson's breast far in the purple westMagnificent, beholds; the abutments broadWhence springs the immeasurable dome of heaven
The Triumph of Love
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
The Woman Hater, a Song
© Henry Carey
IA pretty, empty, Gaudy Frame,Full of Nonsense, full of Pride,Full of Talk, and Naught beside?
Stanzas for Music
© George Gordon Byron
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third
© George Gordon Byron
I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth
© George Gordon Byron
I A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!
II Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers
Dies Dominica! the sunshine burns
© Christopher John Brennan
Dies Dominica! the sunshine burnsstrong incense on the breathing fields of morn:lucid, intense, all colour towards it yearnsthat souls of flowers on the air are born.
XLII
© Boker George Henry
If she should give me all I ask of her,The virgin treasures of her modest love;If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,And limb with limb should palpitate and stirIn that wild struggle whose delights conferA rapture which the jealous gods aboveEnvy and long for as they coldly moveThrough votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,Forever waiting at my beck and call,I lord and master of her all in all;Yet at that weakness I would fret and pineWhich makes exhausted nature trip and fallJust at the point where it becomes divine
The Grave
© Jean Blewett
O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day,Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway.
Angered Reason
© Binyon Heward Laurence
Angered Reason walked with meA street so squat, unshapen, bald,So blear-windowed and grimy-walled,So dismal-doored, it seemed to be
On a Sleeping Friend
© Hilaire Belloc
Lady, when your lovely headDroops to sink among the Dead,And the quiet places keepYou that so divinely sleep;Then the dead shall blessèd beWith a new solemnity,For such Beauty, so descending,Pledges them that Death is ending
