Trust poems
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Abdul Abulbul Ameer
© William Percy French
The sons of the Prophet are brave men and boldAnd quite unaccustomed to fearBut the bravest by far in the ranks of the ShahWas Abdul Abulbul Ameer
The Hind and the Panther: Part I
© John Dryden
A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang'd,Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd;Without unspotted, innocent within,She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin
Song
© Dodsley Robert
Man's a poor deluded bubble, Wand'ring in a mist of lies,Seeing false, or seeing double, Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?Yet presuming on his senses, On he goes most wond'rous wise:Doubts of truth, believes pretences; Lost in error, lives and dies
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
A Ballad of a Nun
© John Davidson
From Eastertide to Eastertide For ten long years her patient kneesEngraved the stones--the fittest bride Of Christ in all the diocese.
"Less than the Dust"
© Cory Adela Florence Nicolson
Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,Less than the trust thou hast in me, Oh, Lord, Even less than these!
King Bee Blues
© Clarke George Elliott
I'm an ol' king bee, honey,Buzzin' from flower to flower.I'm an ol' king bee, sweets,Hummin' from flower to flower.Women got good pollen;I get some every hour.
A Psalm of Life
© Cary Phoebe
Tell me not, in idle jingle, Marriage is an empty dream,For the girl is dead that 's single, And things are not what they seem.
An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Carew
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegyTo crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flowerOf fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,Dry as the sand that measures it, should layUpon thy ashes, on the funeral day?Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispenseThrough all our language, both the words and sense?'Tis a sad truth
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth
© George Gordon Byron
I A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!
II Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers
The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne
© Gelett Burgess
WAKE! For the Hack can scatter into flightShakespere and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.
