Beauty poems

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Jesous Ahatonhia

© Middleton Jesse Edgar

'Twas in the moon of the winter time when all the birds had fledThat Mighty Gitshi Manitou sent angel-choirs instead

Cumnor Hall

© William Mickle

The dews of summer nighte did falle, The moone (sweete regente of the skye)Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle, And manye an oake that grewe therebye.

And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?

Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears

Jottings of New York: A Descriptive Poem

© William Topaz McGonagall

Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold,Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told,They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,Because many of them are thirteen storeys high

Rejection

© McGimpsey David

Thank you for sending your work to Tearsea

Invitation

© McGimpsey David

Please join me on the occasion of mythirty-ninth birthday

Lines written under the conviction that it is not wise to read Mathematics in November after one’s fire is out

© James Clerk Maxwell

In the sad November time,When the leaf has left the lime,And the Cam, with sludge and slime, Plasters his ugly channel,While, with sober step and slow,Round about the marshes low,Stiffening students stumping go Shivering through their flannel

Waste

© John Masefield

No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.

The River

© John Masefield

All other waters have their time of peace.Calm, or the turn of tide or summer drought;But on these bars the tumults never cease,In violent death this river passes out.

Reynard the Fox; or, The Ghost Heath Run

© John Masefield

PART I

The Wind Our Enemy

Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.

From Tamburlaine the Great, Part One ("What is Beauty? saith my sufferings, then")

What is Beauty? saith my sufferings then,If all the pens that poets ever heldHad fed the feeling of their master's thoughts,And every sweetness that inspired their hearts,Their minds, and muses on admired themes,If all the heavenly quintessence they stillFrom their immortal flowers of Poesy,Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceiveThe highest reaches of a human wit,If these had made one poem's periodAnd all combined in Beauty's worthiness,Yet should there hover in their restless headsOne thought, one grace, one wonder at the least,Which into words no virtue can digest

From Doctor Faustus ("Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?")

Was this the face that launched a thousand shipsAnd burned the topless towers of Illium?Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss:Her lips suck forth my soul, see where it flies