Art poems

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Idylls of the King: The Last Tournament (excerpt)

© Alfred Tennyson

  To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne
  Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
  Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
  Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
  Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
  And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear."

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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto VI.

© Sir Walter Scott

XI
  Albert Graeme.
It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.

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The Bowge of Courte

© John Skelton

In Autumpne whan the sonne in vyrgyne

By radyante hete enryped hath our corne

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"Hic Vir, Hic Est"

© Charles Stuart Calverley

Often, when o'er tree and turret,
  Eve a dying radiance flings,
By that ancient pile I linger
  Known familiarly as "King's."

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From Anacreon: 'Twas Now The Hour When Night Had Driven

© George Gordon Byron

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

Her car half round yon sable heaven;

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Limericks

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

THERE is a big artist named Val,
The roughs' and the prize—fighters' pal:
The mind of a groom
And the head of a broom
Were Nature's endowments to Val.

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I Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry

© Vachel Lindsay

  Oh, sweating thieves, and hard-boiled scalawags,
  That still will boast your pride until the doom,
  Smashing every caste rule of the world,
  Reaching at last your Hindu goal to smash
  The caste rules of old India, and shout:
  "Down with the Brahmins, let the Romany reign."

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An Artist Of The Beautiful

© John Greenleaf Whittier

GEORGE FULLER

Haunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youth

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Rokeby: Canto VI.

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

The summer sun, whose early power

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Idyll II. The Sorceress

© Theocritus

  Lady, farewell: turn ocean-ward thy steeds:
  As I have purposed, so shall I fulfil.
  Farewell, thou bright-faced Moon! Ye stars, farewell,
  That wait upon the car of noiseless Night.

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The Hanging Of The Crane

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The lights are out, and gone are all the guests
That thronging came with merriment and jests
  To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane
In the new house,--into the night are gone;
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,
  And I alone remain.

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To My Younger Brother, On His Return From Spain, After The Fatal Retreat Under Sir John Moore, And T

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans

THO' dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Tho' life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flow'rs,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!

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The Task: Book IV. -- The Winter Evening

© William Cowper

Hark! ‘tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

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The Dancer

© Edmund Waller

Behold the brand of beauty tossed!

See how the motion does dilate the flame!

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The March of Ivan

© Henry Lawson

“I have marched to many frontiers, in the pregnant days gone by,
When they told us where to march to, but they did not tell us why.
And they showed us whom to fight with, and they told us where to die.
I have seen our grey battalions to their Heaven—or Hades—hurled—
’Twas enough it was for Russia!—what cared we about the world?

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A Mosca Azul

© Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis

Era uma mosca azul, asas de ouro e granada,
Filha da China ou do Indostão.
Que entre as folhas brotou de uma rosa encarnada.
Em certa noite de verão.

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Prosopopoia : or, Mother Hubbards Tale

© Edmund Spenser

Yet he the name on him would rashly take,
Maugre the sacred Muses, and it make
A servant to the vile affection
Of such, as he depended most upon;
And with the sugrie sweete thereof allure
Chast Ladies eares to fantasies impure.

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The Artilleryman's Vision

© Walt Whitman


While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,

And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight passes,

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Sonnet LVI. Music And Poetry. 2.

© Christopher Pearse Cranch

YET words though weak are all that poets own
Wherewith their muse translates that kindred muse
Of Harmony, whose subtle forms and hues
Float in the unlanguaged poesy of Tone.

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The Triumph of Dead : Chap. 2

© Mary Sidney Herbert

That night, which did the dreadful hap ensue  

That quite eclips'd, nay, rather did replace