Smile poems
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A Pastoral Ode. To the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton
© William Shenstone
The morn dispensed a dubious light,
A sudden mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
Psalm 23 : The Lord My Pasture Shall Prepare
© Joseph Addison
The Lord my pasture shall prepare
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noonday walks He shall attend
And all my midnight hours defend.
Threnody
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Upon your hearse this flower I lay
Brief be your sleep! You shall be known
When lesser men have had their day:
Fame blossoms where true seed is sown,
Or soon or late, let Time wound what it may.
Abrahams Sacrifice
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
The noontide sun streamed brightly down
Moriahs mountain crest,
The golden blaze of his vivid rays
Tinged sacred Jordans breast;
While towering palms and flowerets sweet,
Drooped low neath Syrias burning heat.
Recollections Of A Faded Beauty
© Caroline Norton
There was a certain Irishman, indeed,
Who borrowed Cupid's darts to make me bleed.
My aunt said he was vulgar; he was poor,
And his boots creaked, and dirtied her smooth floor.
She hated him; and when he went away,
He wrote--I have the verses to this day:--
Judy
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
The waitress with the orange hair keeps motionin' me to hurry up and leave
I gulp my coffee - burn my mouth - grab up my coat and slippin' out
I smear a streak of mustard down my sleeve
And the guy behind the register takes my bread and shakes his head
Mons Angelorum
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Joshua O father of my soul, I cannot tell.
The burden of the Lord is heavy on me,
And I am broken beneath it.
The Way Of The Bush
© Alice Guerin Crist
A night of storm and wind and rain,
Tall trees bowing beneath the blast
That shakes and rattles the window-pane,
And a thunderous roar as the creek goes past.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude III.
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme
Of Eginhard and love and youth;
Economy, A Rhapsody, Addressed to Young Poets
© William Shenstone
Insanis; omnes gelidis quaecunqne lacernis
Sunt tibi, Nasones Virgiliosque vides. ~Mart.
Imitation.
--Thou know'st not what thou say'st;
In garments that scarce fence them from the cold
Our Ovids and our Virgils you behold.
The Three Concerned
© Leon Gellert
The Man
He lies forgotten 'neath the watching skies,
the blood upon his bayonet scarlet bright;
the red moon shining in his glazed eyes,
the 'Last Post' crying, crying in the night.
Here And There
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
HERE the warm sunshine fills
Like wine of gods the deepening, cup-shaped dells,
Embossed with marvellous flowers; the happy rills
Roam through the autumnal fields whose rich increase
The Secret Whisky Cure
© Henry Lawson
Twas a common sordid marriage, and theres little new to tell
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between thempurgatory to be sure
And, as far as Jones could make outwell, there wasnt any cure.
Ode XII: On Recovering From A Fit Of Sickness, In the Country
© Mark Akenside
I.
Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's hill,
Rhymed Plea For Tolerance - Dialogue II.
© John Kenyon
A.
By no faint shame withheld from general gaze,
'Tis thus, my friend, we bask us in the blaze;
Where deeds, more surface-smooth than inly bright,
Snatch up a transient lustre from the light.
Cadland, Southampton River
© William Lisle Bowles
If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved
Forby Sutherland
© George Gordon McCrae
A LANE of elms in June;the air
Of eve is cool and calm and sweet.
Dead!
© Alfred Austin
Hush! or you'll wake her. Softly tread!
She slumbers in her little bed.
What do I see? A coffin! Dead?
Yes, dead at break of morning.
An Invitation To Maecenas
© Eugene Field
Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask
Of wine solicits your attention;
The Shadows
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
"How many have gone?" was the question of old
Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft;
Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled,
And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"
