Age poems
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Elegy -- Written in Spring
© Michael Bruce
'Tis past: the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the length'ning day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.
To a Lady on the Death of Three Relations
© Phillis Wheatley
We trace the pow'r of Death from tomb to tomb,
And his are all the ages yet to come.
The Canadian Magpie
© William Henry Drummond
Mos' ev'ryman lak de robin
An' it's pleasan' for hear heem sing,
"O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty"
© Lesbia Harford
O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty,
You must have studied this only the ages long!
Men have thought of God and laughter and duty.
And of love. And of song.
Outlaws
© Robert Graves
Owls: they whinney down the night,
Bats go zigzag by.
Ambushed in shadow out of sight
The outlaws lie.
The Death of Slavery
© William Cullen Bryant
O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years,
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield
The Gascon Punished
© Jean de La Fontaine
THE dame, indeed, the Gascon only jeered,
And e'er denied herself when he appeared;
But when she met the wight, who sought to shine;
And called her angel, beauteous and divine,
She fled and hastened to a female friend,
Where she could laugh, and at her ease unbend.
To Virgil
© Alfred Tennyson
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Thespis: Act I
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Jupiter, Aged Diety
Apollo, Aged Diety
Mars, Aged Diety
Diana, Aged Diety
Mercury
Songs of the Spring Nights
© George MacDonald
The flush of green that dyed the day
Hath vanished in the moon;
Flower-scents float stronger out, and play
An unborn, coming tune.
For The Man Who Fails
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
The world is a snob, and the man who wins
Is the chap for its money's worth:
On Cutting Down The Thorn At Market-Hill
© Jonathan Swift
At Market-Hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.
Isabella; Or, The Pot Of Basil: A Story From Boccaccio
© John Keats
I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Seven Poems
© John Masefield
VI
I went into the fields, but you were there
Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers
Were only glimpses of your starry powers;
Beautiful and inspired dust they were.
In Autumn
© Rubén Dario
I know there are those who ask: Why does he not
sing with the same wild harmonies as before?
But they have not seen the labors of an hour
the work of a minute, the prodigies of a year.
