Car poems

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Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte I. By Wood and Wold

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

Beneath the greenwood bough. -- W. Scott.

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

The Rising Village

© Oliver Goldsmith

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

To The Indifferent Women

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

You who are happy in a thousand homes,Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;Whose souls are wholly centered in the lifeOf that small group you personally love;Who told you that you need not know or careAbout the sin and sorrow of the world?

Do you believe the sorrow of the worldDoes not concern you in your little homes? --That you are licensed to avoid the careAnd toil for human progress, human peace,And the enlargement of our power of loveUntil it covers every field of life?

The one first duty of all human lifeIs to promote the progress of the worldIn righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,Content to keep them in uncertain peace,Content to leave all else without your care

One Girl of Many

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

More Females of the Species

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

When the traveller in the pasture meets the he-bull in his pride,He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside;But the milch cow, thus accosted, pins the traveller to the rail

The Housewife

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

Here is the House to hold me -- cradle of all the race;Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear --Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;Duty older than Adam -- Duty that sawAcceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw

For Soldiers

© Gifford Humphrey

Ye buds of Brutus land, courageous youths, now play your parts!Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant hearts!For news is carried too and fro that we must forth to warfare go

To a Dead Crow

© Ghose Kasiprasad

Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!How oft at morning's rosy primeWhen thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,And to avoid that hateful sound,That plagues a head howe'er profound,Have walked out in my garden, whereBeside the tank, in many a square,Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,Far from those trees within whose gloomOf foliage thick, thou hadst thy nestFrom daily toil at night to rest

A Sonnet of Faith

© William Gay

I am not daunted by the show of things,Nor do I pass them with averted eyes,Feigning I do not see, nor on the wingsOf fair deluding fancy lightly riseAnd from afar the radiant world beholdIn happy silence spinning smoothly by

Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London

© John Gay

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful laysThe proper implements for wintry ways;Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,To read the various warnings of the skies