All Poems
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Paradise Lost
© Scott Francis Reginald
Before any tree grewOn the ground,Or clip of bird wingMade sound,
Night Club
© Scott Francis Reginald
The girls, brighter than wine, are clothed and naked.They pose in abandon by the pools of their laughter.One man is with them, but all, all are invitedTo the short-term ceremony--and something after.
My Amoeba Is Unaware
© Scott Francis Reginald
of this poem in its favour, though it sharesin my totality
Lest We Forget
© Scott Francis Reginald
The British troops at the DardanellesWere blown to bits by British shells
Last Rites
© Scott Francis Reginald
Within his tent of pain and oxygenThis man is dying; grave, he mutters prayers,Stares at the bedside altar through the screens,Lies still for invocation and for hands
Hanged by the Neck
© Scott Francis Reginald
When a man is to be hangedThe professionals order themselvesIn ritual rank
Devoir Molluscule
© Scott Francis Reginald
Make small and hard,Make round, distinct and hardThese verities that hammer and intrudeUpon the careless fringes of the soul.O leave not these sharp grainsWithout their shell of luster and allure.
The Canadian Authors Meet
© Scott Francis Reginald
Expansive puppets percolate self-unctionBeneath a portrait of the Prince of Wales.Miss Crotchet's muse has somehow failed to function,Yet she's a poetess. Beaming, she sails
The Bird
© Scott Francis Reginald
Fluffed and still as snow, the whitebird lay in a crumple of deathfar, far below the flock which, sailing, heardbut did not feel, the shot.
All the Spikes But the Last
© Scott Francis Reginald
Where are the coolies in your poem, Ned?Where are the thousands from China who swung their picks with bare hands at forty below?
Suicide in Trenches
© Siegfried Sassoon
I knew a simple soldier boyWho grinned at life in empty joy,Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,And whistled early with the lark.
Youth and Calm
© Matthew Arnold
'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
Rockall
© Sargent Epes
Pale ocean rock! that, like a phantom shape,Or some mysterious spirit's tenement,Risest amid this weltering waste of waves,Lonely and desolate, thy spreading baseIs planted in the sea's unmeasured depths,Where rolls the huge leviathan o'er sandsGlistening with shipwrecked treasures
A Life on the Ocean Wave
© Sargent Epes
A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep;Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep!Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore:O! give me the flashing brine
When I am Old --
© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
When I am old and drenched in worlds of sadness, And wear a lacy cap upon my head;When, looking past the future's singing gladness, I linger, wistful, in the years long dead
The Old Sampler
© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
Out of the way, in a corner Of our dear old attic room,Where bunches of herbs from the hillside Shake ever a faint perfume,An oaken chest is standing, With hasp and padlock and key,Strong as the hands that made it On the other side of the sea
Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
© Matthew Arnold
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
