All Poems
/ page 187 of 3210 /
The Flitting
© John Clare
I've left my own old home of homes,
Green fields and every pleasant place;
Extracts From An Opera
© John Keats
1.
The sun, with his great eye,
Sees not so much as I;
And the moon, all silve-proud,
Might as well be in a cloud.
Praise
© George Herbert
To write a verse or two is all the praise
That I can raise;
Mend my estate in any wayes,
Thou shalt have more.
The Foray Of Con ODonnell. A.D. 1495
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
The evening shadows sweetly fall
Along the hills of Donegal,
Dream Song
© Sara Teasdale
I plucked a snow-drop in the spring,
And in my hand too closely pressed;
The warmth had hurt the tender thing,
I grieved to see it withering.
The Golden Wedding Of Longwood
© John Greenleaf Whittier
With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow,
The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.
Bibliolatres
© James Russell Lowell
Bowing thyself in dust before a Book,
And thinking the great God is thine alone,
Balade
© Geoffrey Chaucer
HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
The Parting Song
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The unbelov'd one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
"Farewell, farewell!
Come, Spring Flowers
© Eli Siegel
Though the whole world will work to make you to,
I say, Come, spring flowers.
The Return Of Belisarius
© Francis Bret Harte
(MUD FLAT, 1860)
So you're back from your travels, old fellow,
Voices Of The Night : The Reaper And The Flowers
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
Verses by Lady Geralda
© Anne Brontë
Its sound was music then to me;
Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
And my whole soul rejoice.
A June Day
© John Todhunter
The very spirit of summer breathes to-day,
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood,
Mother And Son
© Allen Tate
The falcon mother cannot will her hand
Up to the bed, nor break the manacle
His exile sets upon her harsh command
That he should say the time is beautiful-
Transfigured by her own possessing light:
The sick man craves the impalpable night.
