Car poems
/ page 489 of 738 /
MacDonalds Raid.A.D. 1780.
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
I REMEMBER it well; 'twas a morn dull and gray,
And the legion lay idle and listless that day,
A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul,
And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl,
War's Homecoming
© Edgar Albert Guest
We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France,
And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance,
The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away,
We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray.
We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land,
But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand.
Maesia's Song
© Robert Greene
SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The Cross Roads
© Robert Southey
There was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way,
He sat him down beside a brook
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
Hellbound Train
© Anonymous
A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor,
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
Peter Rugg the Bostonian
© Louise Imogen Guiney
The mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.
Parting
© Frances Anne Kemble
The golden hinges of the year have turned
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Antigone
© George Meredith
The buried voice bespake Antigone.
'O sister! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know,
The Quaker Alumni
© John Greenleaf Whittier
From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine,
Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again;
And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool,
Play over the old game of going to school.
Slumberland Time
© Edgar Albert Guest
IT is Slumberland time, and the storms have passed by,
And the sea is now golden and still,
Isolation
© Edward Booth Loughran
Man lives alone; star-like, each soul
In its own orbit circles ever;
Myriads may by or round it roll -
The ways may meet, but mingle never.
Song #8.
© Robert Crawford
I wonder if, when done with
Is all earth's pain and care,
When we at length are one with
The Dead, and with them bear
The Columbiad: Book V
© Joel Barlow
Sage Franklin next arose with cheerful mien,
And smiled unruffled o'er the solemn scene;
His locks of age a various wreath embraced,
Palm of all arts that e'er a mortal graced;
Beneath him lay the sceptre kings had borne,
And the tame thunder from the tempest torn.
Saint Brandan
© Matthew Arnold
Saint Brandan sails the northern main;
The brotherhood of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again;
So late!such storms!The Saint is mad!
Amis, un dernier mot!
© Victor Marie Hugo
Amis, un dernier mot!
Toi, vertu, pleure si je meurs!
André Chénier.
Amis, un dernier mot ! - et je ferme à jamais
Recollections Of Cornwall
© Robert Laurence Binyon
To R. G. R. and H. P. P.
Let not the mind, that would have peace,
Too much repose on former joy,
Nor in pourtraying past delight
Her needed, active power employ!
Nemesis
© Henry Lawson
It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.
Last Eve
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
birds, it is over and done, your last passion has paled;
The world has no place for your flight nor my heart for your screams.
O hopes that were hopeless, sweet dreams that were ever as dreams,
Let go! get back to your graves, you have fought and have failed.
Only A Building
© Edgar Albert Guest
For it isn't the marble, nor is it the stone,
Nor is it the columns of steel,
By which is the worth of an edifice known,
But by something that's living and real.
