Strength poems
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Salve Deus Rex Iudæorum
© Lanyer Æmilia
Now Pontius Pilate is to judge the CauseOf faultlesse Jesus, who before him stands;Who neither hath offended Prince, nor Lawes,Although he now be brought in woefull bands:O noble Governour, make thou yet a pause,Doe not in innocent blood imbrue thy hands; But heare the words of thy most worthy wife, Who sends to thee, to beg her Sauiours life
The Ahkoond of Swat
© Lanigan George Thomas
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean--he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn
McAndrew's Hymn
© Rudyard Kipling
Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,An', taught by time, I tak' it so--exceptin' always Steam
A Prayer for Grace
© Joussaye Marie
God grant me grace,Whenever I attempt a kindly deed,To help another in the hour of need; To do it cheerfully with smiling faceAnd willing hands, nor ever stop to heedThe sneers of those whose narrow souls and creed For Christ's broad charity can find no place
Only a Working Girl
© Joussaye Marie
I know I am only a working girl, And I am not ashamed to sayI belong to the ranks of those who toil For a living, day by day
Shadow River: Muskoka
© Emily Pauline Johnson
A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies ;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
The Fossil Elephant
© Howitt Mary
The earth is old! Six thousand years, Are gone since I had birth;In the forests of the olden time, And the solitudes of earth.
Absence, Hear thou my Protestation
© John Moses Hoskyns
Absence, hear thou my protestation Against thy strength, Distance and length:Do what thou canst for alteration; For hearts of truest mettle Absence doth join, and time doth settle.
The Pastime of Pleasure
© Stephen Hawes
The good Dame Mercy with Dame CharyteMy body buryed full ryght humblyIn a fayre temple of olde antyquyte,Where was for me a dyryge devoutelyAnd with many a masse full ryght solempnely;And over my grave, to be in memory,Remembraunce made this lytell epytaphy:
"O erthe, on erthe it is a wonders caceThat thou arte blynde and wyll not the knowe
The Flying Fish
© Gray John Henry
Magnae Deus potentiaequi fertili natos aquapartim relinquis gurgitipartim levas in aera.
Confessio Amantis, Book III: The Tale of Apollonius of Tyre
© John Gower
Appolinus his leve tok,To God and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod
Ordinary, Moving
© Gotlieb Phyllis
is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out
the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song
this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever
Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba
The Deserted Village, A Poem
© Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
The Tree
© Anne Finch - Countess of Winchilsea
Fair tree! for thy delightful shade'Tis just that some return be made;Sure some return is due from meTo thy cool shadows, and to thee
"O May I Join the Choir Invisible"
© George Eliot
Longum illud tempus, quum non ero, magis me movet, quam hoc exigium.
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
