All Poems
/ page 2601 of 3210 /Splendidis longum valedico Nugis
© Sir Philip Sidney
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Used-Up Joe
© Henry Clay Work
Brudder Gabriel, blow! I am ready to go;
I am tired ob dis long delay.
You've de wicked to warn; better look for yer horn,-
Fer things will meander away.
Astrophel and Stella XXIII
© Sir Philip Sidney
The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenessBewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes,Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,With idle pains and missing aim do guess
Sapientia Lunae
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
The wisdom of the world said unto me:
"_Go forth and run, the race is to the brave;
Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!_"
"As tarrieth," I said, "for sure, the grave."
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.
What Best I See In Thee
© Walt Whitman
WHAT best I see in thee,
Is not that where thou mov'st down history's great highways,
Sonnet XVIII: With What Sharp Checks
© Sir Philip Sidney
With what sharp checks I in myself am shent,
When into Reason's audit I do go:
And by just counts myself a bankrupt know
Of all the goods, which heav'n to me hath lent:
The Dead Player: In Memory Of Dudley Digges
© Padraic Colum
THE candles lighted and the figure prone
Announce this to you: they are laid aside,
The noble, whimsical and pathetic roles,
Disanimated, not to be resumed!
Sonnet XXII: In Highest Way of Heav'n
© Sir Philip Sidney
In highest way of heav'n the Sun did ride,
Progressing then from fair twins' golden place:
Having no scarf of clouds before his face,
But shining forth of heat in his chief pride;
His Lady Of The Sonnets VI
© Robert Norwood
And I have trembled with those ancient stars,
My heart has known the flame-winged seraphs' song;
For no indifferent, dreamy eyelid bars
Me from the blue, nor veils with lashes long
Your love, that to my tender gazing grows
Bold to confess it: I am glad he knows!
Sonnet XCII: Be Your Words Made
© Sir Philip Sidney
Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
Unrecorded
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Ere over him too darkly lay
The prophet shadow of Calvary,
I think he talked in very truth
With the innocent gayety of youth,
Laughing upon some festal day,
Gently, with sinless boyhood's glee.
Sonnet IV: Virtue, Alas
© Sir Philip Sidney
Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest.
Thou set'st a bate between my soul and wit.
If vain love have my simple soul oppress'd,
Leave what thou likest not, deal not thou with it.
The Mountainsgrow unnoticed
© Emily Dickinson
The Mountainsgrow unnoticed
Their Purple figures rise
Without attemptExhaustion
Assistanceor Applause
Sonnet XIV: Alas, Have I Not
© Sir Philip Sidney
Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire,
Than did on him who first stole down the fire,
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
Sonnet XIII: Phoebus Was Judge
© Sir Philip Sidney
Phoebus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love,
Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were:
Jove's golden shield did eagle sables bear,
Whose talons held young Ganymede above:
The Moralists
© Yvor Winters
You would extend the mind beyond the act,
Furious, bending, suffering in thin
The Passing of the Elder Bards
© William Wordsworth
THE MIGHTY Minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Has closed the Shepherd-poets eyes:
You Gote-heard Gods
© Sir Philip Sidney
You Gote-heard Gods, that loue the grassie mountaines,
You Nimphes that haunt the springs in pleasant vallies,
You Satyrs ioyde with free and quiet forests,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique,
Which to my woes giues still an early morning;
And drawes the dolor on till wery euening.
The Third Satire Of Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Parnell
Compassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies
The tears a passage thro' my swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show,
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satyr! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satyr cur'd an old disease.
Sonnet XIX: On Cupid's Bow
© Sir Philip Sidney
On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same?
When most I glory, then I feel most shame:
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.