Cool poems
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Song of the Lotos-Eaters
© Alfred Tennyson
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
The Comedian As The Letter C
© Wallace Stevens
379 Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets,
380 With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener?
381 No, no: veracious page on page, exact.
Astrophel and Stella
© Sir Philip Sidney
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes entendeth,
Which now my breast, surcharg'd, to musick lendeth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Dickinson Poems by Number
© Emily Dickinson
One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There's only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
368. Song-Scroggam, my dearie
© Robert Burns
THERE was a wife wonn’d in Cockpen,
Scroggam;
She brew’d gude ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
The Man Who Invented the Turn Signal
© Zieroth David Dale
The man who invented the turn signalwalks out the factory gatessomewhere in the westknowing he's done a serviceto the world hitting the roadby telling the car behind
The Prelude: Book 2: School-time (Continued)
© William Wordsworth
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving muchUnvisited, endeavour'd to retraceMy life through its first years, and measured backThe way I travell'd when I first beganTo love the woods and fields; the passion yetWas in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,By nourishment that came unsought, for still,From week to week, from month to month, we liv'dA round of tumult: duly were our gamesProlong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;No chair remain'd before the doors, the benchAnd threshold steps were empty; fast asleepThe Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,A later lingerer, yet the revelryContinued, and the loud uproar: at last,When all the ground was dark, and the huge cloudsWere edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,With weary joints, and with a beating mind
Solomon Grundy
© Whitney Adeline Dutton Train
"Solomon GrundyBorn on Monday,Christened on Tuesday,Married on Wednesday,Sick on Thursday,Worse on Friday,Dead on Saturday,Buried on Sunday,This was the endOf Solomon Grundy."
Market day
© Webb Mary
Who'll walk the fields with us to town,In an old coat and a faded gown?We take our roots and country sweetsWhere high walls shade the steep old streets,And golden bells and silver chimesRing up and down the sleepy times
Working Class
© Warr Bertram
We have heard no nightingales singingin cool, dim lane, where eveningcomes like a procession through the aisles at passion-tide,filling the church with quiet prayer dressed in white
To Cassandra
© Thorley Wilfred Charles
O Mayde more tender yet Than shy sweet buds that wakeOn rose-trees dewy wet When first the daye doth break,That from the thorny speareHalf green, half red doe peere;
The Seasons: Summer
© James Thomson
From brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd,Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth:He comes, attended by the sultry HoursAnd ever-fanning Breezes, on his way;While, from his ardent look, the turning SpringAverts her blushful face; and earth and skies,All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII [all 133 poems]
© Alfred Tennyson
[Preface] Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace,Believing where we cannot prove;
From Joachim du Bellay: Of a Winnower of Wheat to the Winds
© Arthur Symons
To you, light troop, I bring,(You, who with wandering wingOver the wide world pass,And, when your murmurings wake,So sweetly trouble and shakeThe shadow-shaken grass)
Art Poetique
© Arthur Symons
Music first and foremost of all!Choose your measure of odd not even,Let it melt in the air of heaven,Pose not, poise not, but rise and fall.
A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame
Atalanta in Calydon: A Tragedy (complete text)
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Tous zontas eu dran. katthanon de pas anerGe kai skia. to meden eis ouden repei
