Cool poems
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He fumbles at your spirit
© Emily Dickinson
He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Heat
© Archibald Lampman
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
A Lament For The Wissahiccon
© Frances Anne Kemble
The waterfall is calling me
With its merry gleesome flow,
And the green boughs are beckoning me,
To where the wild flowers grow:
To A Woman Of Malabar
© Charles Baudelaire
Your feet are as slender as hands, your hips, to me,
wide enough for the sweetest white girls envy:
to the wise artist your body is sweet and dear,
and your great velvet eyes black without peer.
The Great Beech
© Norman Rowland Gale
With heart disposed to memory, let me stand
Near this monarch and this minstrel of the land,
Now that Dian leans so lovely from her car.
Illusively brought near by seeming falsely far,
In yon illustrious summit sways the tangled evening star.
Ode to Evening
© William Taylor Collins
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Love-Song
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
If Death should claim me for her own to-day,
And softly I should falter from your side,
Heredity
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
A soldier of the Cromwell stamp,
With sword and psalm-book by his side,
At home alike in church and camp:
Austere he lived, and smileless died.
I Serve a Mistress
© Anthony Munday
I serve a mistress whiter than snow,
Straighter than cedar, brighter than the glass,
Finer in trip and swifter than the roe,
More pleasant than the field of flowering grass;
More gladsome to my withering joys that fade,
Than winter's sun or summer's cooling shade.
The Sea
© Lewis Carroll
There are certain things -a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three -
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the SEA.
The Prisoners Of Naples
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound
In Naples, dying for the lack of air
And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,
Where hope is not, and innocence in vain
The Black Rock
© John Gould Fletcher
Off the long headland, threshed about by round-backed breakers,
There is a black rock, standing high at the full tide;
Off the headland there is emptiness,
And the moaning of the ocean,
And the black rock standing alone.
Music
© Stephen Vincent Benet
My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
Kossuth
© James Russell Lowell
A race of nobles may die out,
A royal line may leave no heir;
Wise Nature sets no guards about
Her pewter plate and wooden ware.
A Third Letter From B. Sawin, Esq.
© James Russell Lowell
I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle views
In the last billet thet I writ, 'way down frum Veery Cruze,
16. Of Gluttony and Feasting
© Sebastian Brant
He shows a fool in every wise
Who day and night forever hies
From feast to feat to fill his paunch
The Old Garden
© George MacDonald
I stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;
Over them grey and green lichens
In shadowy arabesque wound.
Beauty. Part III.
© Henry James Pye
'Tis in the mind that Beauty stands confess'd,
In all the noblest pride of glory dress'd,
Where virtue's rules the conscious bosom arm,
There to our eyes she spreads her brightest charm:
There all her rays, with force collected, shine,
Proclaim her worth, and speak her race divine.
Old Aunt Mary's
© James Whitcomb Riley
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, "me and you,"
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
