All Poems

/ page 107 of 3210 /

Order by :

1
. . .
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
. . .
3210

A Catful of Buttermilk

© Gotlieb Phyllis

it 's a bird, it 's a plane, it 's apain in the neck, it 's a thornin the flesh, it 'sA CATFUL OF BUTTERMILK

as I was walking down the street

as I was walking down the streetwho should I meet but my two feetI said how do you dowhat 's new with you?they said who do you think you 're talkin towe haven't got immortal soulswe need a retreadI saidha

Aquarius

© Gotlieb Phyllis

The slow clock whorls of snailsmark time here; such calendarspatterned earlier dark oozeinto reluctant longitudes.

Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte I. By Wood and Wold

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

Beneath the greenwood bough. -- W. Scott.

Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte 5. Lex Talionis

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

And if there's blood upon his hand,'Tis but the blood of deer. -- W. Scott.

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 Rising Village

© Oliver Goldsmith

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

Plainte sur la mort de Sylvie

© Girard Sieur de Saint-Amant Saint-Amant

Ruisseau qui cours après toy-mesme, Et qui te fuis toy-mesme aussi, Arreste un peu ton onde ici Pour escouter mon dueil extresme;Puis, quand tu l'auras sceu, va-t'en dire à la mer Qu'elle n'a rien de plus amer

La Pipe

© Girard Sieur de Saint-Amant Saint-Amant

Assis sur un fagot, une pipe à la main,Tristement accoudé contre une cheminée,Les yeux fixés vers terre, et l'ame mutinée,Je songe aux cruautés de mon sort inhumain

L'Hyver des Alpes

Ces atomes de feu qui sur la neige brillent,Ces estincelles d'or, d'azur et de cristalDont l'hyver, au soleil, d'un lustre orientalPare ses cheveux blancs que les vents esparpillent;

Whatever Is

Whatever is we only knowAs in our minds we find it so; No staring fact is half so clear As one dim, preconceived idea .--No matter how the fact may glow.

To the Young Wife

Are you content, you pretty three-years' wife? Are you content and satisfied to live On what your loving husband loves to give, And give to him your life?

To The Indifferent Women

You who are happy in a thousand homes,Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;Whose souls are wholly centered in the lifeOf that small group you personally love;Who told you that you need not know or careAbout the sin and sorrow of the world?

Do you believe the sorrow of the worldDoes not concern you in your little homes? --That you are licensed to avoid the careAnd toil for human progress, human peace,And the enlargement of our power of loveUntil it covers every field of life?

The one first duty of all human lifeIs to promote the progress of the worldIn righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,Content to keep them in uncertain peace,Content to leave all else without your care

© Gilbert Ruth

You that no skill could stir, I feel you stirringA restless ghost within my haunted side;Your light feet thrust, your frail hands beat against meAsking the life eternally denied.