Poems begining by A

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Across

© Octavio Paz

I turn the page of the day,
writing what I'm told
by the motion of your eyelashes.

Autumn Maples

© Archibald Lampman

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,

When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey?

A Ballad Of Marjorie

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

"What ails you that you look so pale,

O fisher of the sea?"

Art Maxims

© William Watson

Often ornateness
Goes with greatness;
Oftener felicity
Comes of simplicity.

A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:
A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:
One large, white star above the solitude,
Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,
Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain.

A Preface

© Rudyard Kipling

Nothing on earth-no Arts, no Gifts, no Graces-
No Fame, no Wealth-outweighs the wont of it.
This is the Law which every law embraces-
Be fit-be fit! In mind and body be fit!

After Defeat (extract from Saul)

© Charles Heavysege

All's over here;--let us withdraw and weep

Down in the red recesses of our hearts,

Ascension

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I have been down in the darkest water-

Deep, deep down where no light could pierce;

A Manual, More Ancient Than The Art Of Printing, And Not To Be Found In Any Catalogue

© William Cowper

There is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.

An heroic address to [Oxford], concerning the combined utility and dignity of military affairs and o

© Gabriel Harvey

In thy breast is noble blood, Courage animates thy brow, Mars lives in thy tongue,
Minerva strengthen thy right hand, Bellona reigns in thy body, within thee burns the fire of Mars.
Thine eyes flash fire, thy countenance shakes a spear;
who would not swear that Achilles had come to life again?

Adair Welcker, Poet

© Ambrose Bierce

The Swan of Avon died-the Swan
Of Sacramento'll soon be gone;
And when his death-song he shall coo,
Stand back, or it will kill you too.

All White Continued

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Ah, beautiful sweet woman, made in vain,
Since Launcelot is dead and only I,
Alas for this new world of recreant men,
Remain in age Love's creed to justify

A Paraphrase On The Latter Part Of The Sixth Chapter Of St Matthew

© James Thomson

When my breast labours with oppressive care,

And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear:

Assassination

O BLINDED readers of the scroll of time,
Think ye that freedom yields her hand to crime?
Or the fair whiteness of her virginal bud
Of heavenly hope, would desecrate with blood?