Hope poems
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The Burial of the Rev. George Gilfillan
© William Topaz McGonagall
On the Gilfillan burial day,In the Hill o' Balgay,It was a most solemn sight to see,Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,That death had suddenly taken away,And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay
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
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.
The Blacksmith
© John Masefield
The blacksmith in his sparky forge,Beat on the white-hot softness there;Even as he beat he sang an airTo keep the sparks out of his gorge.
The Wind Our Enemy
© Marriott Anne
Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.
Substitutions
© Macpherson Jay
Tedward was aWoolworth’s bear,Filling in forOne not there(Parents’ attic?Thrown away?Long-dulled need re-vived one day):Lost the arche-typal ted,Friendly TedwardDid instead.
Some Ghosts & Some Ghouls
© Macpherson Jay
While we loved those who never read our poems,Answered our letters, said the simple things weWaited so long for, and were too polite to See we were crying,
Villanelle of Mutton
© MacInnes Tom
Very sick and tired am I Of stewed prunes, and apples dried,And this our mutton that once was lamb!
Ballade of Evil
© MacInnes Tom
Evil! What poor argument We mortals hear to make us trustThat as for God he never meant To bait this hook of pain with lust! Then by what devil was it thrustThro' the filmy first upheaval Of our planetary dust?No man knoweth the end of evil
John-John
© MacDonagh Thomas
I dreamt last night of you, John-John, And thought you called to me;And when I woke this morning, John, Yourself I hoped to see;But I was all alone, John-John, Though still I heard your call:I put my boots and bonnet on, And took my Sunday shawl,And went, full sure to find you, John, To Nenagh fair
Epitaph on a Jacobite
© Macaulay Thomas Babington
To my true king I offer'd free from stainCourage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain
The Sonnets of Ishtar
© Lodge George Cabot
I am the world's imperishable desire;Life is because I will, for hope of meLife is, nor all the dark depths of the seaCould quench mine eyes' light nor my body's fire
Piers Plowman: The Prologue
© William Langland
In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne,I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep were;In habite as an hermite unholy of werkesWente I wyde in this world wondres to here;Bote in a Mayes morwnynge on Malverne hullesMe bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thoughte
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;
