Happy poems
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Of his Lady's Old Age
© Andrew Lang
When you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day!When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing
April
© Andrew Lang
April, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days,April, bringing hope of prime,To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;
Acon and Rhodope; or, Inconstancy
© Walter Savage Landor
The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve,Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'dFor festival, some reckless of attire
To a Kaffir Baby
© King Edith L. M.
Kaffir baby, Kaffir baby, Going to the kraal,Are you really comfortable Hanging in your shrawl?
London: A Poem, in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal
© Samuel Johnson
Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
A Shropshire Lad LXII: "Terence, this is stupid stuff
© Alfred Edward Housman
"Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer
The Wreck of the Deutschland (Dec. 6, 7, 1875)
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
[[A-text]]to the happy memory of five Francisan nuns,exiles by the Falck Laws, drowned betweenmidnight & morning of December 7 [[1875]].
When a Little Farm I Keep
© Hinkson Katharine Tynan
When a little farm I keep,I shall tend my kine and sheep,And my pretty lambs shall foldIn deep pastures starred with gold.
Radiolatry
© Guiterman Arthur
The worst of all idolators Are zealous radiolatersWho wreck the peace of erstwhile happy homes With drool of variometers, Detectors, galvanometers,Antennae, switches, batteries and ohms.
Nocturne
© Guiterman Arthur
The three-toed tree-toadSings his sweet ode To the moon;The funny bunnyAnd his honey Trip in tune
Ordinary, Moving
© Gotlieb Phyllis
is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out
the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song
this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever
Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba
The Deserted Village, A Poem
© Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
The Rising Village
© Oliver Goldsmith
Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the
To The Indifferent Women
© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins
You who are happy in a thousand homes,Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;Whose souls are wholly centered in the lifeOf that small group you personally love;Who told you that you need not know or careAbout the sin and sorrow of the world?
Do you believe the sorrow of the worldDoes not concern you in your little homes? --That you are licensed to avoid the careAnd toil for human progress, human peace,And the enlargement of our power of loveUntil it covers every field of life?
The one first duty of all human lifeIs to promote the progress of the worldIn righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,Content to keep them in uncertain peace,Content to leave all else without your care
I Would Fain Die a Dry Death
© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins
The American public is patient, The American public is slow,The American public will stand as much As any public I know
A Sonnet of Faith
© William Gay
I am not daunted by the show of things,Nor do I pass them with averted eyes,Feigning I do not see, nor on the wingsOf fair deluding fancy lightly riseAnd from afar the radiant world beholdIn happy silence spinning smoothly by
Our Crocodile
© Garnett Richard
Our crocodile, (Psammarathis,A priest at Ombi, told me this,)Our crocodile is good and dear,And eats a damsel once a year
Christ's Triumph after Death
© Giles Fletcher The Younger
IBegan to glister in her beams, and nowThe roses of the day began to flow'rIn th' eastern garden; for Heav'ns smiling browHalf insolent for joy begun to show: The early Sun came lively dancing out, And the brag lambs ran wantoning about,That heav'n, and earth might seem in triumph both to shout
