Poems begining by A

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Autumn Song

© Edith Nesbit

"I will not walk the woodlands brown
Where ghosts and mists are blown,
But I will walk the lonely down
And I will walk alone.

America To England

© Katharine Lee Bates

1899 -Who would trust England, let him lift his eyes
To Nelson, columned o'er Trafalgar Square,
Her hieroglyph of duty, written where
The roar of traffic hushes to the skies;

At End Of A Holiday

© Roderic Quinn

"LEAVES and brambles from hill and hollow
Come and gather!" the children cried;
"The sun goes down, and the night will follow,
A moonless night on the dark hillside."

A Book

© Emily Dickinson

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away.
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.

Abstrosophy

© Gelett Burgess

If echoes from the fitful past
Could rise to mental view,
Would all their fancied radiance last
Or would some odors from the blast,
Untouched by Time, accrue?

'All Is Vanity, Saieth the Preacher'

© George Gordon Byron

I.

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine,

Address Delivered At The Opening Of The New Theatre At Richmond

But all at once the rack was blown away,
The snowstorm hushing ended in a sigh;
Then like a flame the crescent moon on high
Leaped forth among the planets; pure as they,
Earth vied in whiteness with the Milky Way:
Herself a star beneath the starry sky.

An AutumnBlooming Rose

© Alfred Austin

I found, and plucked, an autumn-blooming rose,
And shut my eyes, and scented all its savour:
When lo! as in the month the blackthorn blows,
Lambs 'gan to bleat, and merle and lark to quaver.

Anhelli - Chapter 1

© Juliusz Slowacki

Exiles came to the land of Siberia, and having chosen a broad site they built a
wooden house that they might dwell together in concord and brotherly love; and
there were of them about a thousand men of various stations in life.

A Parting Health

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

YES, we knew we must lose him,--though friendship may claim
To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame;
Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,
'T is the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock

© Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted

By white night-gowns.

Adam

© Federico Garcia Lorca

A tree of blood soaks the morning
where the newborn woman groans.
Her voice leaves glass in the wound
and on the panes, a diagram of bone.

A poem, Sacred to the Glorious memory of King George

He said.-Again, with Majesty refin'd,
Up-wing'd to Realms of Bliss, th'Ætherial Mind.

A paraneaticall or advice verse to his friend, Mr John Wicks

Is this a life, to break thy sleep,

To rise as soon as day doth peep?

April Dusk

April dusk
It is tragic to be a poet now
And not a lover
Paradised under the mutest bough.

Austerity Of Poetry

That son of Italy who tried to blow,
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,
In his light youth amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.