Dreams poems
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In an Old Barn
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves, Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,Though few flies wander his secluded way
Canada
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, Who stand'st among the nations nowUnheeded, unadored, unhymned, With unanointed brow, --
Ave! (An Ode for the Shelley Centenary, 1892)
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air,Whether beneath the sole and spectral star The dear severity of dawn you wear,Or whether in the joy of ample day And speechless ecstasy of growing JuneYou lie and dream the long blue hours away Till nightfall comes too soon,Or whether, naked to the unstarred night,You strike with wondering awe my inward sight, --
II Go forth to you with longing, though the yearsThat turn not back like your returning streams And fain would mist the memory with tears,Though the inexorable years deny My feet the fellowship of your deep grass,O'er which, as o'er another, tenderer sky, Cloud phantoms drift and pass, --You know my confident love, since first, a child,Amid your wastes of green I wandered wild
White Flock
© Anna Akhmatova
Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html
Unchain the Laborer
© Pierpont John
Strike from that laborer's limbs his chain! In the fierce sun the iron burns!By night, it fills his dreams with pain; By day, it galls him as he turns.
The Palace-Burner
© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
She has been burning palaces. ."To see The sparks look pretty in the wind?." Well, yes .-And something more. But women brave as she Leave much for cowards such as I to guess.
Requiem
© Phillimore John Swinnerton
Brother, we do not lay you down so deep But we ourselves shall overtake you soon:We dream a little longer, while you sleep; And sleep than dreaming, yours the better boon.
Ode
© O'Shaughnessy Arthur
We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; --World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems
The Dance at McDougall's
© O'Hagan Thomas
In a little log house near the rim of the forest With its windows of sunlight, its threshold of stone,Lived Donald McDougall, the quaintest of Scotchmen, And Janet his wife, in their shanty, alone:By day the birds sang them a chorus of welcome, At night they saw Scotland again in their dreams;They toiled full of hope 'mid the sunshine of friendship, Their hearts leaping onward like troutlets in streams, In the little log home of McDougall's
She Clothed Herself in Dreams
© Nicholls Marjory
She clothed herself in dreams all magical--Did ever Princess in a tale of oldShow half so daintily and rare as sheA lily exquisite--all white and gold?
The Love Song of Otakar Svec
© Neilson Shane
Svec won a competition to build the then-biggest monument to Stalin in Prague. He never saw the unveiling. His wife, Vlasta, predeceased him.
All Pain Can Be Controlled
© Neilson Shane
In the hack-the-limb-off,pull out the tooth by tying it to a doorjamb,give the child something to cry about,cold showers are best, or just ice it, or suck it up, suck all of it up,punch your dad in the belly as he tightens his muscles,ten on a scale of one to ten just means a better amount of control,your lover looking at you and saying, Are you feeling this yet?,the torturer grinning and saying, Have no fear,filling the airbag with nails,stone in the bottom of the shoe for the faithless,dreams of the euthanasia machine are best interrupted halfway through,the logical end is death,kind of way
What Is Impossible
© Moritz Albert Frank
About the age of twenty, when the first hairfallsignals that nature is finished with the organismand we just begin to conceive the use of women(having been all this timemore enamored of the fountain than the cistern),we retire to nursing homes,whether they be kaleidoscopic gardensaimed like a blunderbuss of hermeticism at our neighbors,or a desperate dream safari through old Zambesi,where the suicidal waves of angry nativesgive the illusion that we are advancing rapidly,or the crow's-nest of this windless office blockwhere the cook is already boiling the last sail
The Virgin
© Harold Monro
Arms that have never held me; lips of himWho should have been for me; hair most beloved,I would have smoothed so gently; steadfast eyes,Half-closed, yet gazing at me through the dusk;And hands
Bitter Sanctuary
© Harold Monro
Clients have left their photos there to perish.She watches through green shutters those who pressTo reach unconsciousness.
Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)
© John Milton
PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad successThe Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope,So oft, and the perswasive RhetoricThat sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve,So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve,This far his over-match, who self deceiv'dAnd rash, before-hand had no better weigh'dThe strength he was to cope with, or his own:But as a man who had been matchless heldIn cunning, over-reach't where least he thought,To salve his credit, and for very spightStill will be tempting him who foyls him still,And never cease, though to his shame the more;Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd,Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;Or surging waves against a solid rock,Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew,Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end;So Satan, whom repulse upon repulseMet ever; and to shameful silence brought,Yet gives not o're though desperate of success,And his vain importunity pursues
Paradise Regain'd: Book I (1671)
© John Milton
I Who e're while the happy Garden sung,By one mans disobedience lost, now singRecover'd Paradise to all mankind,By one mans firm obedience fully tri'dThrough all temptation, and the Tempter foil'dIn all his wiles, defeated and repuls't,And Eden rais'd in the wast Wilderness
