Beauty poems
/ page 131 of 313 /
A Story Of Doom: Book VIII.
© Jean Ingelow
Then one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought,
"The Master cometh!" and she went within
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field,
And said, "Is it well, my brother?" He replied,
"Well! and, I pray you, is it well at home?"
To Helen - 1831
© Edgar Allan Poe
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
At The Gate Of The Convent
© Alfred Austin
Beside the Convent Gate I stood,
Lingering to take farewell of those
To whom I owed the simple good
Of three days' peace, three nights' repose.
A Manchester Poem
© George MacDonald
'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad.
The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold
The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught,
And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks,
A black precipitate, on miry streets.
And faces gray glide through the darkened fog.
Boys Bathing
© Muriel Stuart
And colder than these waters are
The stream that takes your limbs at last:
Earth's vales and hills drift slowly past. . .
One shore far off, and one more far
"Love, Dearest Lady, Such As I Would Speak"
© Thomas Hood
Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humor of the eye;
Not being but an outward phantasy,
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,
The Wisdom Of Merlyn
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
These are the time--words of Merlyn, the voice of his age recorded,
All his wisdom of life, the fruit of tears in his youth, of joy in his manhood hoarded,
All the wit of his years unsealed, to the witless alms awarded.
Kings Chapel
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
Is it a weanling's weakness for the past
That in the stormy, rebel-breeding town,
Swept clean of relics by the levelling blast,
Nahant
© Sara Teasdale
BOWED as an elm under the weight of its beauty,
So earth is bowed, under her weight of splendor,
Molten sea, richness of leaves and the burnished
Bronze of sea-grasses.
To Italy. (From Filicaja)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear
The fatal gift of beauty and possess
Love and Age
© Thomas Love Peacock
I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
Give Me A Lass With A Lump Of Land
© Allan Ramsay
Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,
And we for life shall gang thegither;
Music And Sleep
© Madison Julius Cawein
These have a life that hath no part in death;
These circumscribe the soul and make it strong;
The Vampire
© Madison Julius Cawein
A lily in a twilight place?
A moonflow'r in the lonely night?--
Strange beauty of a woman's face
Of wildflow'r-white!
Address To A Maid
© Charles Mair
If those twin gardens of delight,
Thine eyes, were ever in my sight,
To The Memory Of Thomas Shipley
© John Greenleaf Whittier
GONE to thy Heavenly Father's rest!
The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,
And on thine ear the murmurs blest
Of Siloa's waters softly flowing!
