Art poems
/ page 60 of 137 /
An Artist
© Robinson Jeffers
That sculptor we knew, the passionate-eyed son of a quarryman,
Who astonished Rome and Paris in his meteor youth, and then
was gone, at his high tide of triumphs,
Without reason or good-bye; I have seen him again lately, after
twenty years, but not in Europe.
The Castle Of Indolence
© James Thomson
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
Metamorphoses: Book The Eighth
© Ovid
The End of the Eighth Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
Sunrise
© Sidney Lanier
I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide:
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide
In your gospelling glooms, -- to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.
Ode to a Young Lady
© William Shenstone
Survey, my Fair! that lucid stream,
Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?
The Garden Of Boccaccio
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
…
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !
The Progress of Error
© William Cowper
Sing, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long
May find a muse to grace it with a song),
Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!"
A Roman Winter-Piece
© Eugene Field
See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow,
Soracte mocks the sullen sky;
How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed,
And chained with frost the rivers lie.
Ode To The Moon
© Thomas Hood
I
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,
The Golden Legend: III. A Street In Strasburg
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
_Crier of the dead (ringing a bell)._ Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!
To his Friends of Christ-Church upon the mislike of the Marriage of the Arts acted at Woodstock
© Henry King
But is it true, the Court mislik't the Play,
That Christ-Church and the Arts have lost the day;
That Ignoramus should so far excell,
Their Hobby-horse from ours hath born the Bell?
Lines written In An Album
© Helen Maria Williams
BRIGHT nymphs, of NEWA'S banks the pride,
Receive, before we part,
For you, and your maternal guide,
The wishes of my heart!
Jerezanas
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
Jerezanas,
os debo mis virtudes católicas y humanas,
porque en el otro siglo, en vuestro hogar,
en los ceremoniosos estrados me eduqué,
velándome de amor, con las frentes
se velaban debajo del tupé.
Coronation Poem And Prayer
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The world has crowned a thousand kings:
But destiny has kept
Pessimoptimism
© James Russell Lowell
Ye little think what toil it was to build
A world of men imperfect even as this,
A Deepe Groane Fetch'd at the Funerall of that incomparable and Glorious Monarch, CHARLES THE FIRST
© Henry King
To speak our Griefes as full over thy Tombe
(Great Soul) we should be Thunder-struck, and dumbe:
