Beauty poems
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The Moon and the Comet
© Amelia Opie
This fact is clear….Both man and woman
Prize not what's good, but what's uncommon ;
And most delighted still they are,
Not with the excellent, but rare,….
I could of this give proofs most stable,
But, par exemple , take a fable.
The Phantom Ball
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
You remember the hall on the corner?
To-night as I walked down street
I heard the sound of music,
And the rhythmic beat and beat,
In time to the pulsing measure
Of lightly tripping feet.
Basil Moss
© Henry Kendall
SING, mountain-wind, thy strong, superior song
Thy haughty alpine anthem, over tracts
To The Moon Of The South
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Let him go down,--the gallant Sun!
His work is nobly done;
Well may He now absorb
Within his solid orb
Villon
© Ted Hughes
He whom we anatomized
‘whose words we gathered as pleasant flowers
and thought on his wit and how neatly he described things’
speaks
to us, hatching marrow,
broody all night over the bones of a deadman.
Farewell to Matilda
© Thomas Love Peacock
Oui, pour jamais
Chassons l’image
De la volage
Que j’adorais. PARNY.
Translation
© Oliver Goldsmith
CHASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
My Last Afternoon with Uncle Devereux Winslow
© Robert Lowell
a black pile and a white pile....
Come winter,
Uncle Devereux would blend to the one color.
The Gift (To Iris, In Bow Street, Covent Garden)
© Oliver Goldsmith
SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty?
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto IV.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
III Compensation
That nothing here may want its praise,
Know, she who in her dress reveals
A fine and modest taste, displays
More loveliness than she conceals.
A Winter Piece
© William Cullen Bryant
The time has been that these wild solitudes,
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life
Had chafed my spirit--when the unsteady pulse
All Souls' Night
© William Butler Yeats
MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
And may a lesser bell sound through the room;
The Mirror
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
Where is all the beauty that hath been?
Where the bloom?
Dust on boundless wind? Grass dropt into fire?
Impressions Of Francois-Marie Arouet (De Voltaire)
© Ezra Pound
The parks with the swards all over dew,
And grass going glassy with the light on it,
The green stretches where love is and the grapes
Hang in yellow-white and dark clusters ready for pressing.
And if now we can't fit with our time of life
There is not much but its evil left us.
The Sorcerer: Act II
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Scene-Exterior of Sir Marmaduke's mansion by moonlight. All the
peasantry are discovered asleep on the ground, as at the end
of Act I.
The Tenth Olympic Ode Of Pindar
© Henry James Pye
To Agesidamus, son of Archestratus, an Epizephyrian Locrian, on his Victory obtained by the Cæstus. ARGUMENT. The Poet begins the Ode by apologising to Agesidamus, for having so long delayed composing it, after promising to do it. He then compliments him upon his country, and consoles him for being worsted at the beginning of the contest, till encouraged by Ilias, by relating the same circumstance of Hercules and Patroclus. He then describes the institution of the Olympic Games, by Hercules, after the victory he obtained over Augeas, and the sons of Neptune and Molione; and enumerates those who won the first Prizes in the Athletic Exercises. He then, returning to Agesidamus, and congratulating him on having a Poet to sing his exploits, though after some delay, concludes with praising him for his strength and beauty.
STROPHE I.
"Phoebus was gone, all gone, his journey over"
© Pierre Reverdy
Phoebus was gone, all gone, his journey over.
His sister was riding high: nothing bridled her.
Her light was falling, shining into woods and rivers.
Wild animals opened their jaws wide, stirred to prey.
But in the human world all was sleep, pause, relaxation, torpor.
Delia XXXII
© Samuel Daniel
But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again,
Now whilst thy May hath filed thy lap with flowers,
