Age poems
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The Pietous Complainte Of The Soule.
© Thomas Hoccleve
I meanë thus: if ony part of grace Reserued be, in tresoure or ellës where,That thu, for me purveyë and purchaseWolde vouchësaff, gret wondere but there wereI-nowgh for me: nought ellës I require; Do somwhat, than, aftir thi propirte,And schewe whi thu art cleped charite.
But now, allas, ful weel I may recorde, Whil I had myght and space of tyme I-nowgh,Of this mattere, towchid I no word,Ne, to seint, I tho my self[ë] drowgh,
That in myne nede for me may spekë now, As for no service that I have to him do:Wot I not, whom to make my monë to.
Songs Of The Imprisoned Naiad
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
"WOE! woe is me! the centuries pass away,
The mortal seasons run their ceaseless rounds,
While here I wither for the sunbright day,
Its genial sights and sounds.
Woe! woe is me!
On A Portrait
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
A widower muses over the likeness of his dead wife.
THE face, the beautiful face,
In its living flush and glow,
The perfect face in its peerless grace
An Ode To The Hills
© Archibald Lampman
AEons ago ye were,
Before the struggling changeful race of man
Flowers And Stars
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Beloved! thourt gazing with thoughtful look
On those flowers of brilliant hue,
To The Rock That Will Be A Cornerstone Of The House
© Robinson Jeffers
Old garden of grayish and ochre lichen,
How long a rime since the brown people who have vanished from
Gray Weather
© Robinson Jeffers
It is true that, older than man and ages to outlast him, the Pacific surf
Still cheerfully pounds the worn granite drum;
Fragment
© James Weldon Johnson
The hand of Fate cannot be stayed,
The course of Fate cannot be steered,
By all the gods that man has made,
Nor all the devils he has feared,
Not by the prayers that might be prayed
In all the temples he has reared.
Lethargy of leaden wings
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Sure, I sip my lemon tea with spoon of amber honey,
trying to decide which things to do, things I didnt need
to think about before this day, praying for the strength
to ride these doldrums out, to see them to their squalid end.
It is an abhorrent thing
© Ivan Donn Carswell
It is an abhorrent thing, this incarceration of your vulnerability,
profoundly cruel in the way you were beaten
to your knees, blithely unaware it was a battle lost
for your health and wellbeing. It was dreadful to witness
I cannot let the moment pass
© Ivan Donn Carswell
I cannot let the moment pass without a weary greeting,
or retard the recent past where shadows still are fleeting,
Id sabotage the future by just staring in a mirror
and never let the glimmer pass and try to hold my image fast
Faustus And Helen
© Arthur Symons
HELEN
Have I slept long? You waken me from sleep.
I have forgotten something: what is it?
Before the arthritis set in
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Its Wednesday, September 6th and a birthday,
again, these things arrive tediously on time
with wry regularity and sadly, no sense
of providence or charity.
And you will claim
© Ivan Donn Carswell
And you will claim we need more births to keep
our population mix in check while natures truths
suggest there are too many of us yet?
And you will make the claim with good intent,
Crumble-Hall
© Mary Leapor
When Friends or Fortune frown on Mira's Lay,
Or gloomy Vapours hide the Lamp of Day;
With low'ring Forehead, and with aching Limbs,
Oppress'd with Head-ach, and eternal Whims,
Sad Mira vows to quit the darling Crime:
Yet takes her Farewel, and Repents, in Rhyme.
The Borough. Letter XVIII: The Poor And Their
© George Crabbe
applause:
To her own house is borne the week's supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to
Of The Nature Of Things: Book I - Part 05 - Character Of The Atoms
© Lucretius
So primal germs have solid singleness
Nor otherwise could they have been conserved
Through aeons and infinity of time
For the replenishment of wasted worlds.
Gold!
© Thomas Hood
Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled,
Heavy to get and light to hold,
The Golden Legend: VI. The School Of Salerno
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
_Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain,
That a word which is only conceived in the brain
Is a type of eternal Generation;
The spoken word is the Incarnation.
