Beauty poems
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Notes To Be Left In A Cornerstone
© Stephen Vincent Benet
So, always, there were the streets and the high, clear light
And it was a crowded island and a great city;
They built high up in the air.
The Bride of Frankenstein
© Edward Field
The Baron has decided to mate the monster,
to breed him perhaps,
in the interests of pure science, his only god.
Rule, Britannia! (With Variations)
© James Thomson
When Britain first, at heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian Angels sung this strain:
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.
Sonnet To Beauty
© Allen Tate
The wonder of light is your familiar tale,
Pert wench, down to the nineteenth century:
Epilogue - To the Tragedy of Cleone
© William Shenstone
Well, Ladies-so much for the tragic style-
And now the custom is to make you smile.
At Dawn
© Roderic Quinn
THE night-long clamour of winds grew still;
The forest rested, its foes withdrawn;
On sounding ocean and silent hill
There crept a sense of the coming dawn.
Written to be Spoken by Mrs. Siddons
© Samuel Rogers
Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.
Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!
Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set,
Speculation
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Comes a train of little ladies
From scholastic trammels free,
Each a little bit afraid is,
Wondering what the world can be!
Paul's Wife
© Robert Frost
To drive Paul out of any lumber camp
All that was needed was to say to him,
"How is the wife, Paul?"--and he'd disappear.
Some said it was because be bad no wife,
Bond and Free
© Robert Frost
Love has earth to which she clings
With hills and circling arms about--
Wall within wall to shut fear out.
But Though has need of no such things,
For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.
The Garden Of The Sea.
© Arthur Henry Adams
THE infinite garden of the sea is His
To play in. Gravely smiling He resigns
To man his choice this rugged plot of earth,
Watches man tear it with his deep canals,
The Sacrifice Of Iphigenia
© Aeschylus
Now long and long from wintry Strymon blew
The weary, hungry, anchor-straining blasts,
By a Bier-Side
© John Masefield
Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand:
Death is so blind and dumb Death does not understand.
Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs' glory,
Death makes justice a dream, and strength a traveller's story.
Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky.
Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
Provide, Provide
© Robert Frost
The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,
To Count Carlo Pepoli
© Giacomo Leopardi
This wearisome and this distressing sleep
That we call life, O how dost thou support,
The White Peacock
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Go away!
Go away; I will not confess to you!
His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click,
As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
I will not confess! . . .
Elegy XIX
© John Donne
Whoever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he's one that goes
Invita Minerva
© James Russell Lowell
The Bardling came where by a river grew
The pennoned reeds, that, as the west-wind blew,
Gleamed and sighed plaintively, as if they knew
What music slept enchanted in each stem,
Till Pan should choose some happy one of them,
And with wise lips enlife it through and through.
