Poems begining by H

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Horace, Seventh Epode

© James Clerk Maxwell

Whither, whither, reckless Romans,
Are you rushing, sword in hand?
Has not yet the blood of brothers,
Fully stained the sea and land?

"He had served eighty masters. They'd have said"

He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
He "worked for these employers" to earn bread.
And they, if they had heard him, would have sneered
To brand him inefficient whom they feared.
For to know eighty masters is to know
What sort of thing men who are masters grow.

Hope, An Allegorical Sketch

© William Lisle Bowles

I am the comforter of them that mourn;

My scenes well shadowed, and my carol sweet,

Hymn XIII: Happy Soul that Free from Harms

© Charles Wesley

Live, till all thy life I know,
Perfect through my Lord below,
Gladly then from earth remove,
Gathered to the fold above.

Hendecasyllabics

© Alfred Tennyson

O you chorus of indolent reviewers,

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,

Here's A Health To Them That's Awa

© Robert Burns

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa

Hand

© Edouard Roditi

Clouds darken the plain.
From all sides, the mountains of the horizon move forward; the plain shrinks, crumpled into valleys that grow deeper. The three rivers become torrents that flow swiftly in their cavernous beds towards those dark spots where they meet: the cities.
Then the sun again.
The mountains move back to the distant circular horizon; the valleys disappear, and the three rivers flow placidly in their scarcely perceptible beds of luminous sands. The cities glisten with their crystal walls and the hard light is reflected from house to house along the glass streets. Men no longer drag their dark-blue shadows like long chains that rattled on the opaque cobble stones. Silence of light: frozen wines of sound. No wind stirs, sleepily coiled around the towers that are transparent stems bearing the white flowers of clouds which float, vehicles for our pure thoughts, like water-lilies on the surface of a stream until they fade into the blue depth of space.

Hast Thou Forgotten Me?

© Philip Joseph Holdsworth

HAST thou forgotten me? the days are dark

Light ebbs from heaven, and songless soars the lark

Her Going

© Eleanor Agnes Lee

The Wife
Child, why do you linger beside her portal?
None shall hear you now if you knock or clamor*
All is dark, hidden in heaviest leafage.
None shall behold you.