All Poems

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3210

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girlWith the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,And I'll do the same for you, for things are badAll over, etc

Epiphany

© Heber Reginald

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid!Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

Punishment

© Seamus Justin Heaney

I can feel the tug....and tribal, intimate revenge.

Jim Bludso, of the Praire Belle

© John Hay

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Becase he don't live, you see;Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me

The Wail of the Cornish Mother

© Robert Stephen Hawker

I. That what God doth is best:But 'tis only a month to-morrow, I buried it from my breast.

The Song of the Western Men

© Robert Stephen Hawker

I. A merry heart and true!King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.

On the Grave of a Child in Morwenstow Churchyard

© Robert Stephen Hawker

Those whom God loves die young; They see no evil days;No falsehood taints their tongue, No wickedness their ways.

Modryb Marya -- Aunt Mary

© Robert Stephen Hawker

In old and simple-hearted Cornwall, the household names "Uncle" and "Aunt" were uttered and used as they are to this day in many countries of the East, not only as phrases of kindred, but as words of kindly greeting and tender respect

A Croon on Hennacliff

© Robert Stephen Hawker

I. Unto his hungry mate, --"Ho! gossip! for Bude Haven: There be corpses six or eight.Cawk! cawk! the crew and skipper, Are wallowing in the sea:So there's a savoury supper For my old dame and me."

The Burial Hour

© Robert Stephen Hawker

I."To close their brother's narrow bed:"'Tis at that pleasant hour of dayThe labourer treads his homeward way.

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 Writers Postscript: or a Frendly Caueat to the Second Shakerley of Powles

© Gabriel Harvey

Slumbring I lay in melancholy bed,Before the dawning of the sanguin light:When Eccho Shrill, or some Familiar SprightBuzzed an Epitaph into my hed.

A Charm for a Mad Woman

© Gabriel Harvey

O heavenly med'cine, panacea high,Restore this raging woman to her health,More worth than hugest sums of worldly wealth,Exceedingly more worth than any wealth.

To the Spirit of the West

© Susan Frances Harrison

God of the rivers and lakes,Maker of manifold blooms,Dweller in woodland brakes,Weaver of violet glooms,

Rivière Perdue

Lost river hides--Rivière Perdue.Between steep banks of slaty shale,Known but to Emile's sullen crew.

The Peddler (Male)

Scissors and needles and pins--pins and needles and tape!Autolycus come to life, but look how Autolycus grins!What's wrong with his mouth? You would say it's full of his needles and pins,It's all on one side with a kink, a kind of a twisted gape

The Peddler (Female)

Fur-coated, lip-sticked, bleached and water-waved,Mild yet majestic, first she fills the door,Then gently pushes forward with her storeIn large black bag; her purse is gilt engravedWith name, address, so clearly she has saved,From arduous calling, golden bits galore,Safe guarded by a friendly Bank, beforeWhose cautious counter she is well-behaved

Of Love in Reproof

I thought that Life was worth the living,I thought that Love was worth the giving.

March

Here on the wide waste lands,Take--child--these trembling hands,Though my life be as blank and waste,My days as sorely ungracedBy glimmer of green on the rimOf a sunless wilderness dim,As the wet fields barren and brown,As the fork of each sterile limbShorn of its lustrous crown