Poems begining by A
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At Eventide
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Poor and inadequate the shadow-play
Of gain and loss, of waking and of dream,
A Meadow Tragedy
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Here's a meadow full of sunshine
Ripe grasses lush and high;
A Late Good Night
© Robert Fuller Murray
My lamp is out, my task is done,
And up the stair with lingering feet
I climb. The staircase clock strikes one.
Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!
An Aurora Borealis
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
O STRANGE soft gleam, o ghostly dawn
That never brightens unto day;
Ere earth's mirk pale once more be drawn
Let us look out beyond the gray.
A Pier-Head Chorus
© John Masefield
Oh I'll be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread,
And dancing with the stars to watch, upon the fo'c's'le head,
Hearkening to the bow-wash and the welter of the tread
Of a thousand tons of clipper running free.
A Christmas Fancy
© Robert Fuller Murray
Early on Christmas Day,
Love, as awake I lay,
And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,
My heart stole through the gloom
Into your silent room,
And whispered to your heart, `I love you dearly.'
A Winter Song
© Robert Laurence Binyon
O the nearer, deeper
In my heart, remembering
My Love's kiss and how her eyes
Blessed me like enchanted skies,
Is the joy that with the spring
Shall waken Earth the sleeper.
April In The Huasteca
© Grace Hazard Conkling
Dark on the gold west,
Mexico hung inscrutable like a curtain of heavy velvet
And their feet move
© Sappho
And their feet move
rhythmically, as tender
feet of Cretan girls
danced once around an
April
© Archibald Lampman
Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,
Still priestess of the patient middle day,
AN EPITAPH On his most honoured Friend Richard Earl of Dorset
© Henry King
Let no profane ignoble foot tread neer
This hallow'd peece of earth, Dorset lies here.
A small sad relique of a noble spirit,
Free as the air, and ample as his merit;
A Sermon
© Ada Cambridge
We have heard many sermons, you and I,
And many more may hear,
When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,
With folded palms and faces meek and grave;-
But few like this one, dear.
A Story Of Doom: Book VIII.
© Jean Ingelow
Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought,
"The Master cometh!" and she went within
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field,
And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied,
"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?"
At The Gate Of The Convent
© Alfred Austin
Beside the Convent Gate I stood,
Lingering to take farewell of those
To whom I owed the simple good
Of three days' peace, three nights' repose.
A Manchester Poem
© George MacDonald
'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad.
The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold
The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught,
And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks,
A black precipitate, on miry streets.
And faces gray glide through the darkened fog.
An Apology For The Clergy,
© Mary Barber
How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to Death, they cry,
Whilst other Priests are yawning by?
Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,
Why should They waste their Lungs in vain?
A Winter Walk
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
WE never had believed, I wis,
At primrose time when west winds stole
Like thoughts of youth across the soul,
In such an altered time as this,
Autumn Morning at Cambridge
© Frances Darwin Cornford
I RAN out in the morning, when the air was clean and new,
And all the grass was glittering and grey with autumn dew,
I ran out to the apple tree and pulled an apple down,
And all the bells were ringing in the old grey town.
