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Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur
© Alfred Tennyson
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts
© William Shenstone
Arbusta humilesque myrciae. ~ Virg.
Explanation.
Groves and lovely shrubs.
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 2
© Alfred Tennyson
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The Ghost in the Martini
© Anthony Evan Hecht
Over the rim of the glass
Containing a good martini with a twist
I eye her bosom and consider a pass,
Certain we’d not be missed
Flower Herding on Mount Monadnock
© Washington Allston
1
I can support it no longer.
Laughing ruefully at myself
For all I claim to have suffered
I get up. Damned nightmarer!
Australia To England
© John Farrell
What of the years of Englishmen?
What have they brought of growth and grace
Nymphidia, The Court Of Fairy
© Michael Drayton
Old Chaucer doth of Thopas tell,
Mad Rabelais of Pantagruel,
Lines In Memory Of Edmund Morris
© Duncan Campbell Scott
How shall we transmit in tendril-like images,
The tenuous tremor in the tissues of ether,
Before the round of colour buds like the dome of a shrine,
The preconscious moment when love has fluttered in the bosom,
Before it begins to ache?
Becoming a Redwood
© Dana Gioia
Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds
start up again. The crickets, the invisible
toad who claims that change is possible,
The Hour of the Angel
© Rudyard Kipling
Sooner or late-in earnest or in jest-
(But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel's Hour
Paradise Regain'd: Book III (1671)
© Patrick Kavanagh
SO spake the Son of God, and Satan stood
A while as mute confounded what to say,
The Recluse - Book First
© William Wordsworth
HOME AT GRASMERE
ONCE to the verge of yon steep barrier came
A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age
Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,
Paradise Lost: Book IX (1674)
© Patrick Kavanagh
To whom the Virgin Majestie of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austeer composure thus reply'd,
Inside Out
© Diane Wakoski
You cannot let me walk inside you too long inside
the veins where my small feet touch
bottom.
You must reach inside and pull me
like a silver bullet
from your arm.
Faded pictures
© William Vaughn Moody
NLY two patient eyes to stare
Out of the canvas. All the rest-
Haverhill
© John Greenleaf Whittier
O river winding to the sea!
We call the old time back to thee;
From forest paths and water-ways
The century-woven veil we raise.
