Smile poems
/ page 14 of 369 /
The Last Survivor
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YES! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast,
And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last?
When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill,
With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?
To Maecenas
© Phillis Wheatley
Not you, my friend, these plaintive strains become,
Not you, whose bosom is the Muses home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I less happy, cannot raise the song,
The fault'ring music dies upon my tongue.
All Ashore!
© Henry Lawson
The rattling donkey ceases,
The bell says we must part,
You long slab of good-nature,
And poetry and art!
Week-End
© Harold Monro
I
The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise.
Hurry, or it will try to creep away.
Out in the country every one is wise:
Peruvian Tales: Alzira, Tale II
© Helen Maria Williams
PIZARRO lands with the Forces-His meeting with ATALIBA -Its un-
happy consequences-ZORAI dies-ATALIBA imprisoned, and strangled
-Despair of ALZIRA .
An Epistle To William Hogarth
© Charles Churchill
Amongst the sons of men how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own!
At Breakfast Time
© Edgar Albert Guest
My Pa he eats his breakfast
in a funny sort of way:
We hardly ever see him
at the first meal of the day.
Dear Is The Lost Wife To A Lone Man's Heart
© Jean Ingelow
Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart,
When in a dream he meets her at his door,
And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart,
All unresponsive on a silent shore;
Dearer, yea, more desired art thou-for thee
My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea.
Sphinx-Money
© Mathilde Blind
To find Sphinx-money. So the Beduin calls
Small fossils of the waste. Nay, poet's gold;
'Twill give thee entrance to those rites of old,
When hundred-gated Thebes, with storied walls,
Gleamed o'er her Plain, and vast processions rolled
To Amon-Ra through Karnak's pillared halls.
How Still, How Happy!
© Emily Jane Brontë
How still, how happy! Those are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the plashing of the surge,
The changing heaven the breezy weather,
To My Godchild-Francis M. W. M.
© Francis Thompson
This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon,
Riding at anchor off the orient sun,
Squire Hawkins's Story
© James Whitcomb Riley
He sized it all; and Patience laid
Her hand in John's, and looked afraid,
And waited. And a stiller set
O' folks, I KNOW, you never met
In any court room, where with dread
They wait to hear a verdick read.
Conscription
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
There is a shadow on the head I love,
There is a danger lurks thy path upon,
Pharsalia - Book V: The Oracle. The Mutiny. The Storm
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
While soldier thus and chief,
In doubtful sort, against their hidden fate
Devised their counsel, Appius alone
Feared for the chances of the war, and sought
Through Phoebus' ancient oracle to break
The silence of the gods and know the end.
James Longstreet
© Anonymous
With muffled drums and the flag that was furled
With the cause that was lost, when the last smoke curled
The Widow
© Katharine Tynan
When she smiles her love draws nigh,
When she weeps he doth depart,
And returns to the Heavens high
With an unwounded heart.
