All Poems
/ page 97 of 3210 /
Epigrams: To John Donne
© Benjamin Jonson
Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each MuseWho, to thy one, all other brains refuse;Whose every work of thy most early witCame forth example, and remains so yet;Longer a-knowing than most wits do live;And which no affection praise enough can give!To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,Which might with half mankind maintain a strife
Epigrams: Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H.
© Benjamin Jonson
Wouldst thou hear what man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay
Epigrams: An Epitaph on S.P.
© Benjamin Jonson
Weep with me, all you that read This little story:And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry
Sometimes
© Jones Jr. Thomas S.
Across the fields of yesterday He sometimes comes to me,A little lad just back from play -- The lad I used to be.
The Little Ghosts
© Jones Jr. Thomas S.
Where are they gone, and do you know If they come back at fall o' dew,The little ghosts of long ago, That long ago were you?
London: A Poem, in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal
© Samuel Johnson
Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,
Drury-lane Prologue Spoken by Mr. Garrick at the Opening of the Theatre in Drury-Lane, 1747
© Samuel Johnson
When Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foesFirst rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespear rose;Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast
The Song my Paddle Sings
© Emily Pauline Johnson
West wind, blow from your prairie nest,Blow from the mountains, blow from the westThe sail is idle, the sailor too ;O! wind of the west, we wait for you
Shadow River: Muskoka
© Emily Pauline Johnson
A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies ;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
The Pilot of the Plains
© Emily Pauline Johnson
"False," they said, "thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn ;Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born ;Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming, Show the white thine Indian scorn
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
Brier: Good Friday
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
The King's Quire
© James I of Scotland
Bewailing in my chamber thus allone, Despeired of all joye and remedye,For-tirit of my thoght, and wo begone, Unto the wyndow gan I walk in hye, To se the warld and folk that went forby;As for the tyme, though I of mirthis fudeMyght have no more, to luke it did me gude
Written in Cold
© Hyde Robin
When I am weighted down with fameAnd wealthy past desire,I shall spend every copper onPine-sticks for a fire.
The Wayfarer
© Hyde Robin
The wounds of the world are good wounds, got in a hardy fight --Therefore 'tis best to welcome or pilgrim or knightWho limping comes on his quest, forspent or betrayed,Whose breast is an aching thrust; and who will not be stayed
The Vestal
© Hyde Robin
When all the other hours are drawn and grey,Spent by their little lusts of pride of gain,Sudden, like slim blue slivers of spring rain,Falls down the dusk
Persephone in Winter
© Hyde Robin
Persephone in winter-timeLay still, nor gave a thoughtTo the fierce surging tides of flowersHer restless youth had brought
Outcast
© Hyde Robin
I care not if from shoulder now to feetThey strip my poor rags of pretence away --Torn lace of pride that once seemed very meet,Bedraggled crest that in the lists shone gay,And, with strange darker scarlet soaking through,The soiled wet scarlet of a tattered shoe
