Dreams poems
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The Worlds Doing
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
ONE scarce would think that we can be the same
Who used, in those first childish Junes, to creep
An Old Song
© Dorothea Mackellar
The almond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.
I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.
The Marriage Of Geraint
© Alfred Tennyson
'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud;
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.
November, 1851
© George MacDonald
Why wilt thou stop and start?
Draw nearer, oh my heart,
And I will question thee most wistfully;
Gather thy last clear resolution
To look upon thy dissolution.
The Right Way
© Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
Birth of the word is by agony molded,
Through earthly life it is quietly going,
It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden
Pitcher the drops of the savages mourning.
In Time of Sickness
© Robert Fuller Murray
Lost Youth, come back again!
Laugh at weariness and pain.
Come not in dreams, but come in truth,
Lost Youth.
The Way Home
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Many dreams I have dreamed
That are all now gone.
The world, mirrored in a dark pool,
How unearthly it shone!
The Blue Ridge
© Harriet Monroe
STILL and calm,
In purple robes of kings,
The low-lying mountains sleep at the edge of the world.
The forests cover them like mantles;
Day and night
Rise and fall over them like the wash of waves.
Future Poetry
© Alice Meynell
No new delights to our desire
The singers of the past can yield.
I lift mine eyes to hill and field,
And see in them your yet dumb lyre,
Poets unborn and unrevealed.
The Wonder-Working Magician - Act II
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
CYPRIAN. Ever wrangling in this way,
How ye both my patience try!
Why can he not go? Say why?
To Memory
© Thomas Sturge Moore
Thou dream of dreams, which most we can retrieve
And least forget, for thee dramatic truth
Drapes in fresh silks the tragedy of youth.
Yet as they act, our eyes, once blind, perceive
Much those performers are too fond to note
Till phantom sobs catch in a shrivelled throat.
The Castle Of Indolence
© James Thomson
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!
We lived right jollily.
Metamorphoses: Book The Eighth
© Ovid
The End of the Eighth 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
Not Heaving From My Ribb'd Breast Only
© Walt Whitman
NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only;
Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself;
Ye Wearie Wayfarer [A Dedication to the author of Holmby House"
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Fytte I
By Wood and Wold
[A Preamble]
Untitled 8
© Owen Suffolk
Thou sinless and sweet one - thy voice is a strain
Which yields solace to sadness, and balm to my pain,
