Fear poems

/ page 177 of 454 /

Order by :

1
. . .
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
. . .
454

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year

© George Gordon Byron

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze--
A funeral pile.

Ressurection

© John Donne

Moist with one drop of Thy blood, my dry soul

Shallthough she now be in extreme degree

The Wanderer's Lament

© Arthur Symons

Why am I fettered with eternal change?

I follow after changeless love, and find

The Victories Of Love. Book II

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore

II
From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill

Then Enid pondered in her heart, and said:
'I will go back a little to my lord,
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk;
For, be he wroth even to slaying me,
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die,
Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.'

The Creek of the Four Graves [Early Version]

© Charles Harpur

And feeling thus by habit, that poor man
Though the black shadow of untimely death
Hopelessly thickened under every stroke,
Upstruggled desperate, until at last,
One, as in mercy, gave him to the dust,
With all his sorrows.

To H. C.

© William Wordsworth

SIX YEARS OLD
O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

Sappho I

© Sara Teasdale

MIDNIGHT, and in the darkness not a sound,
So, with hushed breathing, sleeps the autumn night;
Only the white immortal stars shall know,
Here in the house with the low-lintelled door,

Actors Waiting In The Wings Of Europe (incomplete)

© Keith Douglas

Actors waiting in the wings of Europe
we already watch the lights on the stage
and listen to the colossal overture begin.
For us entering at the height of the din
it will be hard to hear our thoughts, hard to gauge
how much our conduct owes to fear or fury.

Autumn

© William Watson

Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung,

Thou retrospect in Time's reverted eyes,

Forest Silence

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Where she reclines
In a rock's cup,
Smooth, tawny--mossed,
Under tall pines,
Her eyes look up,
Her gaze is lost.

Hymn To Mercury

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.
I.
Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,
The Herald-child, king of Arcadia

Written Christmas Day 1797

© Charles Lamb

I am a widow'd thing, now thou art gone!

Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,

Westward

I found my Love among the fern. She slept.
My shadow stole across her, as I stept
More lightly and slowly, seeing her pillowed so
In the short--turfed and shelving green hollow