Beauty poems

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Ode for Memorial Day

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

DONE are the toils and the wearisome marches,

Done is the summons of bugle and drum.

Coleridge's Cristabel

© Charles Harpur

Mark yon runnel, how tis flowing,

Like a sylvan spirit dreaming

To John Keats, Poet, At Spring Time

© Countee Cullen

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year's song and next year's bliss.

Sonnets xvi

© William Shakespeare

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime
In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights;

Sonnets xv

© William Shakespeare

TO me, fair friend, you never can be old;
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold
Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride;

Jerusalem Delivered - Book 05 - part 05

© Torquato Tasso

LXV

But yet all ways the wily witch could find

Sonnets vi

© William Shakespeare

O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

Sonnets iv

© William Shakespeare

THY bosom is endeared with all hearts
Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead:
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.

Sonnet XXXVII

© William Shakespeare

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

Restlessness

© Emma Lazarus

Would I had waked this morn where Florence smiles,

A-bloom with beauty, a white rose full-blown,

Fill your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal.
Sit at the western window. Take the sun
Between your hands like a ball of flaming crystal,
Poise it to let it fall, but hold it still,
And meditate on the beauty of your existence;
The beauty of this, that you exist at all.

Impromptu

© Frances Anne Kemble

Give me a song to sing,
Poet, sound the lyre,
Strike from the rock the spring,
Smite from the flint the fire.

Sonnet VI "I Scarcely Grieve, O Nature! at the Lot"

© Henry Timrod

I scarcely grieve, O Nature! at the lot

That pent my life within a city's bounds,

Wordsworth

© Charles Harpur

With what a plenitude of pure delight
He triumphs on the mountains cloudy height,
With what a gleeful harmony of joy
He wanders down the vale as happy as a boy!

Sonnet XXIV

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.

Sonnet XXII

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.

Sonnet XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse

The Pastoral Letter

So, this is all, the utmost reach
Of priestly power the mind to fetter!
When laymen think, when women preach,
A war of words, a "Pastoral Letter!"

Sonnet XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

Sketches In The Exhibition

How clear a strife of light and shade is spread!
The face how touched with nature's loveliest red!
The eye, how eloquent, and yet how meek!
The glow subdued, yet mantling on thy cheek!
M----ve! I mark alone thy beauteous face,
But all is nature, dignity, and grace!