All Poems
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How Soon The Servant Sun
© Dylan Thomas
A leg as long as trees,
This inward sir,
Mister and master, darkness for his eyes,
The womb-eyed, cries,
And all sweet hell, deaf as an hour's ear,
Blasts back the trumpet voice.
Unstable Pride
© Arthur Symons
Because her body is a tender thing,
Like powdered butterflies, that must remain
Lines.If we should ever meet again
© Louisa Stuart Costello
If we should ever meet again
When many tedious years are past;
Apparition
© William Ernest Henley
Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably,
Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face -
Hymn VIII: What Could Your Redeemer Do
© Charles Wesley
What could your Redeemer do
More than he hath done for you?
Senlin: A Biography Pt. 01:His Dark Origins
© Conrad Aiken
He lights his pipe with a pointed flame.
'Yet, there were many autumns before I came,
And many springs. And more will come, long after
There is no horn for me, or song, or laughter.
Translation From Horace
© George Gordon Byron
[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.]
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Sonnet IX: If This Be Love
© Samuel Daniel
If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
Paint on floods, till the shore, cry to th'air,
The Bishop and the Busman
© William Schwenck Gilbert
It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
A Character
© William Wordsworth
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
Iron Wine
© Lola Ridge
The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,
A Walk In The Shrubbery
© Charlotte Turner Smith
To the Cistus or Rock Rose, a beautiful plant, whose flowers
expand, and fall off twice in twenty-four hours.
Elegy VI
© Henry James Pye
Now has bright Sol fulfill'd his circling course,
Again to Taurus roll'd his burning car,
The Gipsy's Camp
© John Clare
How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,
March
© Hilaire Belloc
The certain course that to his strength belongs
Drives him with gathering purpose and control
Until across Vendean flats he sees
Ocean, the eldest of his enemies.
Then wheels he for him, glorying in his goal
And gives him challenge, bellowing battle songs.
