Car poems
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I Feel I'm Growing Old
© Mills David
I feel I'm growing old, Mary, My heart is full of care,Time makes his furrow on my brow, His snows are on my hair;The brook still murmurs in the glen, That drives the creaking mill,And though I take the upward way, I'm going down the hill
Cumnor Hall
© William Mickle
The dews of summer nighte did falle, The moone (sweete regente of the skye)Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle, And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
© Meyer Bruce
Say you managed just one word more on a sheet as paper-white as snow; a footprint, a miracle, it pointed ahead and others followed dutifully as pets stopping only to look forward and seize unfolding years perched on blue lines, wires carrying voices from eternity, never faltering for phrases, life, or song
Shiloh: A Requiem (April, 1862)
© Herman Melville
Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly lowOver the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh --Over the field where April rainSolaced the parched ones stretched in painThrough the pause of nightThat followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh --The church so lone, the log-built one,That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there --Foemen at morn, but friends at eve -- Fame or country least their care:(What like a bullet can undeceive!) But now they lie low,While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh
Jottings of New York: A Descriptive Poem
© William Topaz McGonagall
Oh mighty City of New York! you are wonderful to behold,Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told,They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,Because many of them are thirteen storeys high
The Burial of the Rev. George Gilfillan
© William Topaz McGonagall
On the Gilfillan burial day,In the Hill o' Balgay,It was a most solemn sight to see,Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,That death had suddenly taken away,And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay
Reunion
© McGimpsey David
What is my news? Well, since graduating,I've raked it in and I've tossed it off,I've plucked the green peach and sodded the pitch
Lines written under the conviction that it is not wise to read Mathematics in November after one’s fire is out
© James Clerk Maxwell
In the sad November time,When the leaf has left the lime,And the Cam, with sludge and slime, Plasters his ugly channel,While, with sober step and slow,Round about the marshes low,Stiffening students stumping go Shivering through their flannel
