Poems begining by A
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A Shrine In The Pantheon
© Henry Van Dyke
FOR THE UNNAMED SOLDIERS WHO DIED IN FRANCE
Universal approval has been accorded the proposal made in the French Chamber that the ashes of an unnamed French soldier, fallen for his country, shall be removed with solemn ceremony to the Pantheon. In this way it is intended to honor by a symbolic ceremony the memory of all who lie in unmarked graves.
A Retrospect
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
I, trusting that the truly sweet
Would still be sweetly found the true,
A Clerk
© Kostas Karyotakis
The hours have faded me, found once again
leaning across the thankless table.
(The sun slips through the window in the wall that
faces me, and plays.)
Anacreontick II
© Thomas Parnell
When Spring came on with fresh Delight,
To cheer the Soul, and charm the Sight,
While easy Breezes, softer Rain,
And warmer Suns salute the Plain;
'Twas then, in yonder Piny Grove,
That Nature went to meet with Love.
Against the Second
© Mao Zedong
The very clouds foams atop White Cloud Mountain,
At its base the roar of battle quicken.
Withered trees and rotten stumps join in the fray.
A forest of rifles presses,
As the flying General descends from the skies.
Abraham Lincoln
© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil,
Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil;
God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van,
In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed
a Man.
A Death-Parting
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
LEAVES and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
Autumn Plaint
© Stéphane Mallarme
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or
you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Romes last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memorys half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.
A Story Of Doom: Book IX.
© Jean Ingelow
The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night
And listened; and the earth was dark and still,
A Maori Girl's Song
© Alfred Domett
"Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:
By the tingling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;
Poor hapless I - poor little I - so many mouths to fill -
And all for this strange feeling - O, this sad, sweet pain!
A Madrigal
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Dream days of fond delight and hours
As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine.
Love's drowsy wine,
Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers,
Flows softly o'er my lips
And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.
A Recompense
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
The hound that followed at my heel
Looked up with eyes so full of love
I kissed the curly brows between
And blessed the God above.
An Anglers Wish
© Henry Van Dyke
I
WHEN tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;
Ask What I Shall Give Thee (II)
© John Newton
If Solomon for wisdom prayed,
The Lord before had made him wise;
Else he another choice had made,
And asked for what the worldlings prize.
A Nuptial Eve
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
'Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!'
A Song In Three Parts
© Jean Ingelow
The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
Four am I fair,'
Au bord de la mer
© Victor Marie Hugo
Oh oui ! la terre est belle et le ciel est superbe ;
Mais quand ton sein palpite et quand ton oeil reluit,
Quand ton pas gracieux court si léger sur l'herbe
Que le bruit d'une lyre est moins doux que son bruit ;
Above The Oxbow
© Sylvia Plath
Here in this valley of discrete academies
We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks
Altiora Peto
© George Essex Evans
To each there came the passion and the fire,
The breadth of vision and the sudden light,
And for a moment on an earthly lyre
Quivered a tremor of the Infinite;
Yet to each poet of that deep-browed throng
Twas but the shadow of Immortal Song.
