Cool poems
/ page 94 of 144 /
The Noon Quatrains
© Charles Cotton
THE Day grows hot, and darts his rays
From such a sure and killing place,
A Masque Presented At Ludlow Castle, 1634. (Comus)
© John Milton
The Scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner of
deliciousness: soft music, tables spread with all dainties. Comus
appears with his rabble, and the LADY set in an enchanted chair;
to
whom he offers his glass; which she puts by, and goes about to
rise.
The Arid Lands
© Herbert Bashford
THESE lands are clothed in burning weather,
These parched lands pant for Gods cool rain;
I look away where strike together
The burnished sky and barren plain.
A Fly About A Glasse Of Burnt Claret.
© Richard Lovelace
I.
Forbear this liquid fire, Fly,
It is more fatal then the dry,
That singly, but embracing, wounds;
And this at once both burns and drowns.
Idyll IX. Pastorals
© Theocritus
DAPHNIS. MENALCAS. A SHEPHERD.
SHEPHERD.
A song from Daphnis! Open he the lay,
He open: and Menalcas follow next:
Old Homes
© Madison Julius Cawein
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;
Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;
Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;
Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;
Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
Metamorphoses: Book The Eleventh
© Ovid
The End of the Eleventh Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
In Summer
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
The Old Stockman's Lament
© Henry Lawson
Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Requiem
© Anna Akhmatova
Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -
I shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
[1961]
The Fan : A Poem. Book III.
© John Gay
Learn hence, ye wives; bid vain suspicion cease,
Lose not in sulien discontent your peace.
For when fierce love to jealousy ferments,
A thousand doubts and fears the soul invents,
No more the days in pleasing converse flow,
And nights no more their soft endearments know.
The Black Knight
© Johann Ludwig Uhland
'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness,
When woods and fields put off all sadness.
Thus began the King and spake:
"So from the halls
Of ancient hofburg's walls,
A luxuriant Spring shall break."
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part III.
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stood
Square shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill,
Amelia Jane
© David McKee Wright
In the lands away beyond the sea, where Khan and Sultan rule,
Where they drink their coffee thick and black, and sip the sherbet cool,
They have white Circassian girls for slaves, as well as the Negro black;
And it seems to me in our free land that slavery's coming back:
It's fenced about with custom and law, and they give it a prettier name.
But, spite of the paltry wage that's paid, it's slavery all the same.
Children Of Love
© Harold Monro
The holy boy
Went from his mother out in the cool of the day
Over the sun-parched fields
And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.
The Parsonage Improved
© Henry James Pye
Where gentle Deva's lucid waters glide
In slow meanders thro' the winding vale,
Pheidippides
© Robert Browning
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honour to all!
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise
--Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear!
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer,
The Moon, Offended
© Charles Baudelaire
Oh moon our fathers worshipped, their love discreet,
from the blue countrys heights where the bright seraglio,
the stars in their sweet dress, go treading after you,
my ancient Cynthia, lamp of my retreat,
Cafes In Damascus
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
LANGUIDLY the night-wind bloweth
From the gardens round,
Where the clear Barrada floweth
With a lulling sound.
