Hope poems
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Imbiancato
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
A note of thanks to you whenall is said and done, for the little cowboy,for the sonata, for the now and againshimmer of sun that reinstitutes, reinvests
he fell into my arms and said
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
he fell into my arms and said"sometimes god takes what we love most. he knows best".i agree.so I made up something as i buried his grandchildren.
Cowboy on Horse in Desert
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
Little cowboy, painted ona paint-by-numbers picturefound in a junk shop
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
Cooper's Hill (1642)
© Sir John Denham
Sure we have poets that did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, and therefore I supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
The Husband’s and Wife’s Grave
© Dana Richard Henry
Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold,As once ye did in your young days of love,On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,Its silent meditations, its glad hopes,Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and blissFull, certain, and possessed
The Dying Raven
© Dana Richard Henry
Come to these lonely woods to die alone?It seems not many days since thou wast heard,From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,Calling upon thy mates -- and their clear answers
Forty Below
© Dafoe Christopher
From this valley we hope to be going,When at last we can travel alone,For we're sick of the snow and the dust storms,In Toronto we'll find a new home.
The Rhyme of the Beast
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
Lo, the Beast that rioteth, Sick with hate and coveting --To the sons of men he saith, I will show you a new thing.
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
The Passions
© William Taylor Collins
When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound;And as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for madness rul'd the hour,Would prove his own expressive pow'r
Presentiment
© Hartley Coleridge
Something has my heart to saySomething on my brest does weighThat when I would full fain be gay Still pulls me back.
Marching Men
© Coleman Helena Jane
Flaring bugle, throbbing drum,Onward, onward hear them come,Like a tide along the streetSwells the sound of martial feet;On the breeze their colors streaming,In the sun their rifles gleaming,Pride of country, pride of race
In October
© Coleman Helena Jane
Touched by October's changing frost and heat, The ivy flames upon the gray old walls, Or, whirled by sudden, fitful breezes, fallsIn little crimson showers at our feet;Impetuous Spring and lingering Autumn meet On these wide lawns and in the echoing halls, For Summer with its golden bounty callsTo hearts that still with youth and promise beat
The Triumph of Love
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
Elegy over a Tomb
© Edward Herbert
Must I then see, alas, eternal night Sitting upon those fairest eyes,And closing all those beams, which once did rise So radiant and brightThat light and heat in them to us did prove Knowledge and love?
Oh, if you did delight no more to stay Upon this low and earthly stage,But rather chose an endless heritage, Tell us at least, we pray,Where all the beauties that those ashes ow'd Are now bestow'd
