All Poems
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Epipsychidion
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one,
Whose empire is the name thou weepest on,
In my heart's temple I suspend to thee
These votive wreaths of withered memory.
Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four
© Henry Kendall
I HEAR no footfall beating through the dark,
A lonely gust is loitering at the pane;
There is no sound within these forests stark
Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain;
The Idlers Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. May
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
THE LONDON SEASON
I still love London in the month of May,
By an old habit, spite of dust and din.
I love the fair adulterous world, whose way
The Lew O The Rick
© William Barnes
At eventide the wind wer loud
By trees an' tuns above woone's head,
The Dogs
© Arthur Symons
My desires are upon me like dogs, I beat them back,
Yet they yelp upon my track;
And I know that my soul one day shall lie at their feet.
And my soul be these dogs' meat.
Sonnet XXVIII. Past Sorrows.
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
As tangled driftwood barring up a stream
Against our struggling oars when hope is high
To reach some fair green island we descry
Lying beyond us in the morning's gleam,
Of The Nature Of Things: Book V - Part 03 - The World Is Not Eternal
© Lucretius
Is rendered back; and since, beyond a doubt,
Earth, the all-mother, is beheld to be
Likewise the common sepulchre of things,
Therefore thou seest her minished of her plenty,
And then again augmented with new growth.
The Road
© Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
I stared at the unfolding road,
Beneath the shadow of grand oaks, -
Such a familiar old road,
Surrounded by flower fence.
The Field Of Battle
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
The Deed of Blood is o'er!
And, hark, the Trumpet's mournful breath
Low murmurs round it a Note of Death
The Mighty are no more!
Speak
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Obscured the sun, the world is dark;
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
Send down thy spark.
A Prayer To Saint Rosa
© Lesbia Harford
When I am so worn out I cannot sleep
And yet I know I have to work next day
The Homely Pathetic
© Francis Bret Harte
The dews are heavy on my brow;
My breath comes hard and low;
Scandal
© John Clare
She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes
To hear the news and tell the news she knows;
The Road To Cabinteely
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Oh, the lonely road, the road to Cabinteely!
'Tis there I see a little ghost, and gaily singeth she.
With the Tide
© Edith Wharton
Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name
Is gone from me, I read that when the days
Mourning in Andalusia
© Abu l-Hasan al-Husri
If white is the colour
of mourning in Andalusia,
it is a proper custom.
The Stricken Hart
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
The stricken hart had fled the brake,
His courage spent for life's dear sake.
He came to die beside the lake.
