All Poems
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The Sermon in the Stocking
© Anonymous
The supper is over, the hearth is swept,
And in the wood-fire's glow
The children cluster to hear a tale
Of that time so long ago,
Impressions II. La Fuite De La Lune
© Oscar Wilde
TO outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.
I have never seen
© Emily Dickinson
I have never seen "Volcanoes"
But, when Travellers tell
How those oldphlegmatic mountains
Usually so still
Metamorphoses: Book The Third
© Ovid
The End of the Third Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
Among The Orchards
© Archibald Lampman
Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry
Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops
Friars Song
© William Makepeace Thackeray
Some love the matin-chimes, which tell
The hour of prayer to sinner:
Ilicet
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
THERE is an end of joy and sorrow;
Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,
But never a time to laugh or weep.
The end is come of pleasant places,
The end of tender words and faces,
The end of all, the poppied sleep.
An Episode
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Along a narrow Moorish street
A blue-eyed soldier strode.
(Ah, well-a-day.)
Veiled from her lashes to her feet
She stepped from her abode,
(Ah, lack-a-day.)
The Poets
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
When this young Land has reached its wrinkled prime,
And we are gone and all our songs are done,
Sweet Danger
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The danger of war, with its havoc of life,
The danger of ocean, when storms are rife,
A Lament
© Victor Marie Hugo
"O paths whereon wild grasses wave,
O valleys, hillsides, forests hoar!
Why are ye silent as the grave?"
"For one who came, and comes no more!"
Songs with Preludes: Dominion
© Jean Ingelow
I.
Yon mooréd mackerel fleet
Hangs thick as a swarm of bees,
Or a clustering village street
Foundationless built on the seas.
My Country Love
© Norman Rowland Gale
If you passed her in your city
You would call her badly dressed,
It Is No Spirit Who From Heaven Hath Flown
© William Wordsworth
IT is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;
Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!
'Tis Hesperus--there he stands with glittering crown,
To The Men At Home
© Edgar Albert Guest
No war is won by cannon fire alone;
The soldier bears the grim and dreary role;
