Beauty poems
/ page 267 of 313 /
Juliet After The Masquerade. By Thompson
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
SHE left the festival, for it seem'd dim
Now that her eye no longer dwelt on him,
Winter Uplands
© Archibald Lampman
The frost that stings like fire upon my cheek,
The loneliness of this forsaken ground,
The long white drift upon whose powdered peak
I sit in the great silence as one bound;
"Tis An Old Tale And Often Told"
© Frances Anne Kemble
Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Italy : 35. Caius Cestius
© Samuel Rogers
When I am inclined to be serious, I love to wander up
and down before the tomb of Caius Cestius. The
Protestant burial-ground is there; and most of the little
monuments are erected to the young ; young men of
The Wedded Lover
© Christopher Morley
They said by now the path would be more steep,
the sunsets paler and less mild the air;
Rightly we heeded not; it was not true.
We will not tell the secret-let it keep.
I know not how I thought those days so fair
These being so much fairer, spent with you
The Last Unicorn
© Ivan Donn Carswell
We were never set to let her free
from facile bonds, we fondly loved
mythology too much to let her go
and kept her chained beyond
the scheme of sessile separation.
Phasellus Ille
© Ezra Pound
Come Beauty barefoot from the Cyclades,
She'd find a model for St. Anthony
In this thing's sure decorum and behaviour.
The Companions
© Alfred Noyes
How few are they that voyage through the night
On that eternal quest,
For that strange light beyond our light,
That rest beyond our rest.
Sonnet 53: "What is your substance, whereof are you made..."
© William Shakespeare
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
The Faire Begger
© Richard Lovelace
I.
Comanding asker, if it be
Pity that you faine would have,
Then I turne begger unto thee,
Compensations
© Alfred Noyes
Not with a flash that rends the blue
Shall fall the avenging sword.
Gently as the evening dew
Descends the mighty Lord.
The Nativity
© William Cowper
Upon my meanness, poverty, and guilt,
The trophy of thy glory shall be built;
My selfdisdain shall be the unshaken base,
And my deformity its fairest grace;
For destitute of good, and rich in ill,
Must be my state and my description still.
Burns
© Charles Harpur
MY OWN WILD BURNS! these rude-wrought rhymes of thine
In golden worth are like the unshapely coin
Of some new realm, yet pure as from the mine
And Art may well be spared with such alloy
As dims the bullion to improve the die!
The Voice Of Beauty Drowned
© Robert Graves
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'
The other birds woke all around;
Consciousness Of Our Return
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Night's grating of steel on stone and splash
of water crashing from the buckets
brings back that moment in a flash;
the night burnt bright in limb's caress
and flesh yielding flesh in passions
blessed by sealed lips.
Faustus And Helen
© Arthur Symons
HELEN
Have I slept long? You waken me from sleep.
I have forgotten something: what is it?
The Reply Of The Fountain
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
HOW deep within each human heart,
A thousand treasured feelings lie;
Things precious, delicate, apart,
Too sensitive for human eye.
The Farewell to Clarimonde
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.
Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,
Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,
And starve for those lost moments of delight.
A True Hero
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
JAMES BRAIDWOOD: Died June 22, 1861.
NOT at the battle front,--writ of in story;
Not on the blazing wreck steering to glory;
Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
