War poems
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Shakespeare's Sonnets: Let those who are in favour with their stars
© William Shakespeare
Let those who are in favour with their starsOf public honour and proud titles boast,Whil'st I whom fortune of such triumph barsUnlook't for joy in that I honour most;Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spreadBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,And in them-selves their pride lies burièd,For at a frown they in their glory die
Shakespeare's Sonnets: If there be nothing new, but that which is
© William Shakespeare
If there be nothing new but that which is,Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,Which lab'ring for invention bear amissThe second burthen of a former child?Oh that record could with a back-ward look,Ev'n of five hundreth courses of the sun,Show me your image in some antique book,Since mind at first in character was done,That I might see what the old world could sayTo this composèd wonder of your frame,Whether we're mended, or whe'er better they,Or whether revolution be the same! Oh sure I am the wits of former days To subjects worse have giv'n admiring praise
Shakespeare's Sonnets: How careful was I when I took my way
© William Shakespeare
How careful was I, when I took my way,Each trifle under truest bars to thrustThat to my use it might un-usèd stayFrom hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust;But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,Art left the prey of every vulgar thief
Shakespeare's Sonnets: Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
© William Shakespeare
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groanFor that deep wound it gives my friend and me!Is 't not enough to torture me aloneBut slave to slav'ry my sweet'st friend must be?Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken,And my next self thou harder hast engrossed
Pro Patria
© Seaman Owen
England, in this great fight to which you go Because, where Honour calls you, go you must,Be glad, whatever comes, at least to know You have your quarrel just.
The Girt Woak Tree
© William Barnes
The girt woak tree that's in the dell !
There's noo tree I do love so well;
Marmion: Canto 6
© Sir Walter Scott
Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower,To view afar the Scottish power, Encamp'd on Flodden edge:The white pavilions made a show,Like remnants of the winter snow, Along the dusky ridge
The Lady of the Lake: Canto 1
© Sir Walter Scott
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking
Social Notes II, 1935
© Scott Francis Reginald
The efficiency of the capitalist systemIs rightly admired by important people
Paradise Lost
© Scott Francis Reginald
Before any tree grewOn the ground,Or clip of bird wingMade sound,
Last Rites
© Scott Francis Reginald
Within his tent of pain and oxygenThis man is dying; grave, he mutters prayers,Stares at the bedside altar through the screens,Lies still for invocation and for hands
The Canadian Authors Meet
© Scott Francis Reginald
Expansive puppets percolate self-unctionBeneath a portrait of the Prince of Wales.Miss Crotchet's muse has somehow failed to function,Yet she's a poetess. Beaming, she sails
The Old Sampler
© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
Out of the way, in a corner Of our dear old attic room,Where bunches of herbs from the hillside Shake ever a faint perfume,An oaken chest is standing, With hasp and padlock and key,Strong as the hands that made it On the other side of the sea
Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
© Matthew Arnold
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
The Mirror for Magistrates: The Induction
© Thomas Sackville
The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace,With blustering blasts had all ybar'd the treen,And old Saturnus, with his frosty face,With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green;The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown
Flight into Reality
© Rowley Rosemarie
Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury
