Car poems

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On The Progress Of The Soul...

© John Donne

Forget this rotten world, and unto thee

Let thine own times as an old story be.

Hudibras: Part 1 - Canto I

© Samuel Butler

His doublet was of sturdy buff,
And tho' not sword, yet cudgel-proof;
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use,
Who fear'd no blows, but such as bruise.

"Flowers Of France" Decoration Poem For Soldiers' Graves, Tours, France, May 30, 1918

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Flowers of France in the Spring,

Your growth is a beautiful thing;

Valentine Day in Cactus Center

Things is quiet, here in Cactus, and our bullyvards now lack
The brisk, upliftin' infloo'nce of the forty-five's loud crack;
There's three doctors and some nusses, all the way from San Antone,
And they're patchin' up the leavin's of a Valentine cyclone.

Street Lanterns

© Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

Over the dull earth are thrown
Topaz, and the ruby stone.

Danger d'aller dans les bois

© Victor Marie Hugo

Ne te figure pas, ma belle,
Que les bois soient pleins d'innocents.
La feuille s'émeut comme l'aile
Dans les noirs taillis frémissants ;

At The Saturday Club

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

I start; I wake; the vision is withdrawn;
Its figures fading like the stars at dawn;
Crossed from the roll of life their cherished names,
And memory's pictures fading in their frames;
Yet life is lovelier for these transient gleams
Of buried friendships; blest is he who dreams!

To James Russell Lowell

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

Here let us keep him, here he saw the light,--
His genius, wisdom, wit, are ours by right;
And if we lose him our lament will be
We have "five hundred"--_not_ "as good as he."

The Fools

© Muriel Stuart

BELOW, the street was hoarse with cries,
With groan of carts and scuffling feet,
With laughter worse than blasphemies,
Was choked with dust and blind with heat,
This room was still-too still for peace.

Sonnet VI. To Hope

© Charlotte Turner Smith

OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes.
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn?
For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose,
And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?

How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate?

© Alfred Tennyson

A hand displayed with many a little art;
An eye that glances on her neighbor's dress;
A foot too often shown for my regard;
An angel's form - a waiting-woman's heart;
A perfect-featured face, expressionless,
Insipid, as the Queen upon a card.

'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning,
All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect;
And in a Jeremiad of objurgatory warning
He lifted up his jodel to the following effect: