All Poems

/ page 142 of 3210 /

Order by :

1
. . .
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
. . .
3210

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,--In sooth a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee

Written for my Son, and Spoken by Him in School, upon his Master's First Bringing in a Rod

© Mary Barber

OUR master, in a fatal hour,Brought in this Rod, to shew his pow'r

Written for my Son, and Spoken by Him at his First Putting on Breeches

© Mary Barber

WHAT is it our mamma's bewitches,To plague us little boys with breeches ?To tyrant Custom we must yield,Whilst vanquish'd Reason flies the field

To a Lady, Who Valu'd Herself on Speaking Her Mind in a Blunt Manner, Which She Call'd Being Sincere

© Mary Barber

WELL you Sincerity display, A virtue wond'rous rare !Nor value, tho' the world should say, You're rude, so you're sincere

To Mrs. P********, with some Drawings of Birds and Insects

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire,One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. (Pope)

To Mr. Barbauld, November 14, 1778

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Come, clear thy studious looks awhile, 'T is arrant treason now To wear that moping brow, When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

To a Little Invisible Being Who is Expected Soon to Become Visible

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Germ of new life, whose powers expanding slowFor many a moon their full perfection wait,--Haste, precious pledge of happy love, to goAuspicious borne through life's mysterious gate.

A Thought on Death: November, 1814

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

When life as opening buds is sweet,And golden hopes the fancy greet,And Youth prepares his joys to meet,--Alas! how hard it is to die!

The Rights of Women

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest;O born to rule in partial Law's despite,Resume thy native empire o'er the breast!

An Inventory of the Furniture in Dr. Priestley's Study

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

A map of every country known,With not a foot to call his own

Dirge: Written November 1808

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

Pure spirit! O where art thou now! O whisper to my soul!O let some soothing thought of thee, The bitter grief control!

The Caterpillar

© Anna Lætitia Barbauld

No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,The azure and the orange that divideThy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,My garment has enfolded, and my armFelt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,Bending thy head in airy vacancy,This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemedTo ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee

The Violin

© Ball J. E.

The Violin, all good musicians say, While yet in babyhood you must begin; And so, beneath my little rounded chin,'Twas promptly tucked, and I began to play The Violin.

A Sestina of Memories

© Ball J. E.

When you were nine, and I was six years old,Do you remember how we wandered forth,Two small explorers, through the summer fields,With apple turnovers provisioned well,And trampled down the farmer's mowing grass,In haste to pluck the little red-stemmed rose?

And how the farmer in his fury roseWith hot red face, as ogres wore of old,And eyeing angrily his battered grass,With wingèd words he drove the culprits forth,And swore a whipping would be theirs as wellThe next time they profaned his sacred fields?

Regretfully we left those sunny fields(For there alone it grew, our longed-for rose),And sate us down beside a little wellThat bubbled up 'midst stonework grey and old,And watched the slow soft runlets spouting forth,To lose themselves amidst the spongy grass