Family poems
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Don Juan: Canto The Third
© George Gordon Byron
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
Composed At Clevedon, Somersetshire
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
My pensive Sara, thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flowered jasmine and the broad-leaved myrtle
The Progress Of A Divine: Satire
© Richard Savage
All priests are not the same, be understood!
Priests are, like other folks, some bad, some good.
What's vice or virtue, sure admits no doubt;
Then, clergy, with church mission, or without;
When good, or bad, annex we to your name,
The greater honour, or the greater shame.
My Dependence
© Rabindranath Tagore
I like to be dependent, and so for ever
with warmth and care of my mother
my father , to love, kiss and embrace
wear life happily in all their grace.
The Wombat
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
OH how the family affections combat
Within this heart, and each hour flings a bomb at
My burning soul! Neither from owl nor from bat
Can peace be gained until I clasp my wombat.
Stranger
© Hristo Botev
Hurry, stranger, quickly come
to your father's home at last,
do a dance before his home,
join the dance the pass across.
What's The Pope Do?
© Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
What's the pope do? Drinks, and takes a nap;
looks out the window, has a bite to eat,
The Poem Of Imru al Qays
© Imru al Qays Ibn Hujr
I said to the wolf, "You gather as little wealth, as little prosperity as I.
What either of us gains he gives away. So do we remain thin."
Hope Is A Tattered Flag
© Carl Sandburg
Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time.
Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white
Torn In Shreds
© Mirabai
Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
The Invitation
© Robert Bloomfield
O for the strength to paint my joy once more!
That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er;
The Passion Of Our Lady
© Charles Péguy
For the past three days she had been wandering, and following.
She followed the people.
Krishna Learning To Walk
© Sant Surdas
Hands stretched out hesitantly,
A foot on the ground unstably,
Old Fashioned Remedies
© Edgar Albert Guest
Seems the kitchen stove back then always had a pan or two
Brewing up a remedy for the ailments which we knew,
Something mother said we'd need surely in a little while,
Senna tea for stomach ills and its brother chamomile;
But I vow the worst of all remedies they gave to me
Was that gummy, sticky stuff known and served as flaxseed tea.
For The Holy Family By Michelangelo
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
TURN not the prophet's page, O Son! He knew
All that Thou hast to suffer, and hath writ.
Told By "The Noted Traveler"
© James Whitcomb Riley
Even so had they wrought all ways
To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,--
And with what ultimate end in view?--
They were saving up money enough to be
Able, in time, to buy their own
Five children back.
Winter Cares
© Kristijonas Donelaitis
"Of course, the fire consumes a lot of kindling wood,
When we warm up the house or cook a boiling pot.
Just think what kind of food we'd have to eat each day,
If there were no wood to burn and no helpful fire.
We'd have naught but sodden, sour swill to eat, like swine.
The Ring And The Book - Chapter VI - Giuseppe Caponsacchi
© Robert Browning
Again the morning found me. I will work,
Tie down my foolish thoughts. Thank God so far!
I have saved her from a scandal, stopped the tongues
Had broken else into a cackle and hiss
Around the noble name. Duty is still
Wisdom: I have been wise. So the day wore.
Italy : 51. Marco Griffoni
© Samuel Rogers
War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or
later, play they how they will; yet every nation has
delighted in war, and none more in their day than the
little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had
