All Poems
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The Death of the Ox
© McLachlan Alexander
And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?
Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears
Ode on the Mammoth Cheese Weighing over 7,000 Pounds
© James McIntyre
We have seen the Queen of cheese,Laying quietly at your ease,Gently fanned by evening breeze --Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
Jottings of New York: A Descriptive Poem
© William Topaz McGonagall
Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold,Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told,They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,Because many of them are thirteen storeys high
The Burial of the Rev. George Gilfillan
© William Topaz McGonagall
On the Gilfillan burial day,In the Hill o' Balgay,It was a most solemn sight to see,Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,That death had suddenly taken away,And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay
View from a Suburban Window
© Phyllis McGinley
When I consider how my light is spent, Also my sweetness, ditto all my power,
Reunion
© McGimpsey David
What is my news? Well, since graduating,I've raked it in and I've tossed it off,I've plucked the green peach and sodded the pitch
Precious
© McGimpsey David
Precious as the love between a manand either Betty or Veronica,sweet as spending the night in a vanwith a bottle of no-name Goldshläger
Li-Lo (Blazon)
© McGimpsey David
The Fully Loaded, Freaky Friday smasherholed up in rehab but still looking smart
There Is No Death
© McCreery John Luckey
There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some other shore,And bright in heaven's jeweled crown They shine for evermore.
In Flanders Fields
© John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.
Lines written under the conviction that it is not wise to read Mathematics in November after one’s fire is out
© James Clerk Maxwell
In the sad November time,When the leaf has left the lime,And the Cam, with sludge and slime, Plasters his ugly channel,While, with sober step and slow,Round about the marshes low,Stiffening students stumping go Shivering through their flannel
Waste
© John Masefield
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.
Vagabond
© John Masefield
Dunno a heap about the what an' why, Can't say's I ever knowed.Heaven to me's a fair blue stretch of sky, Earth's jest a dusty road.
[There is no God, as I was taught in youth...]
© John Masefield
There is no God, as I was taught in youth,Though each, according to his stature, buildsSome covered shrine for what he thinks the truth,Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds
Spanish Waters
© John Masefield
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to meOf the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be
The River
© John Masefield
All other waters have their time of peace.Calm, or the turn of tide or summer drought;But on these bars the tumults never cease,In violent death this river passes out.
