Hope poems

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Locksley Hall Sixty Years After

© Alfred Tennyson

Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts,

In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 56

© Alfred Tennyson

"So careful of the type?" but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, "A thousand types are gone:I care for nothing, all shall go.

In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 131

© Alfred Tennyson

O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock,Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,

In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII [all 133 poems]

© Alfred Tennyson

[Preface] Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace,Believing where we cannot prove;

The Orphan

© Taylor Jane

MY father and mother are dead, No friend or relation I have :And now the cold earth is their bed, And daisies grow over the grave.

My Mother

© Taylor Ann

Who fed me from her gentle breast,And hush'd me in her arms to rest,And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? My Mother.

A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks, tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate

Fruit-gathering LV

© Rabindranath Tagore

Tulsidas, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead.

Sea-Wind

© Arthur Symons

The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read

A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame

Atalanta in Calydon: A Tragedy (complete text)

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

Tous zontas eu dran. katthanon de pas anerGe kai skia. to meden eis ouden repei

Love that doth Reign and Live within my Thought

© Henry Howard

Love that doth reign and live within my thoughtAnd built his seat within my captive breast,Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest

London, hast thou Accused me

© Henry Howard

London, hast thou accused meOf breach of laws, the root of strife?Within whose breast did boil to see,So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,That even the hate of sins that growWithin thy wicked walls so rife,For to break forth did convert soThat terror could it not repress