Fear poems
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On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
© John Milton
This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace
Cumnor Hall
© William Mickle
The dews of summer nighte did falle, The moone (sweete regente of the skye)Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle, And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
Young Canada, or Jack's as Good as his Master
© McLachlan Alexander
I love this land of forest grand! The land where labour's free;Let others roam away from home, Be this the land for me!Where no one moils, and strains and toils, That snobs may thrive the faster;And all are free, as men should be, And Jack's as good's his master!
Where none are slaves, that lordly knaves May idle all the year;For rank and caste are of the past,-- They'll never flourish here!And Jew or Turk if he'll but work, Need never fear disaster;He reaps the crop he sowed in hope, For Jack's as good's his master
The Death of the Ox
© McLachlan Alexander
And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?
Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears
The Wind Our Enemy
© Marriott Anne
Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.
Upton Wood
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
They hanged three men In Upton Wood:Three months on air Their feet have stood.
The Song of the Ski
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
Norse am I when the first snow falls;Norse am I till the ice departs
The Yellow Bittern
© MacDonagh Thomas
The yellow bittern that never broke out In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;His bones are thrown on a naked stone Where he lived alone like a hermit monk
The Last Buccaneer
© Macaulay Thomas Babington
The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear,When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.
