Fear poems

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The Zonnebeke Road

© Edmund Blunden

Morning, if this late withered light can claim

Some kindred with that merry flame

And if a lightning now were loosed in flame
Out of the darkness of the cloud to claim
Thy heart, O England, how wouldst thou be known
In that hour? How to the quick core be shown
And seen? What cry should from thy very soul
Answer the judgment of that thunder--roll?

Abraham Lincoln

© Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Child of the boundless prairie, son of the virgin soil,
Heir to the bearing of burdens, brother to them that toil;
God and Nature together shaped him to lead in the van,
In the stress of her wildest weather when the Nation needed
a Man.

On Content

© Thomas Parnell

Grant heav'n that I may chuse my bliss

If you design me worldly Happiness

Song XI. - Perhaps it is not love

© William Shenstone

Perhaps it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.

Autumn Plaint

© Stéphane Mallarme

Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or

you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Romes last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memorys half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.

The Mistress Of Vision

© Francis Thompson

Secret was the garden;
Set i' the pathless awe
Where no star its breath can draw.
Life, that is its warden,
Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not,
and I saw.

A Story Of Doom: Book IX.

© Jean Ingelow

The prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night

And listened; and the earth was dark and still,

A Maori Girl's Song

© Alfred Domett

"Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:
By the tingling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;
Poor hapless I - poor little I - so many mouths to fill -
And all for this strange feeling - O, this sad, sweet pain!

Youth

© Edgar Albert Guest

If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me;

I'd answer every challenge to my will.

Foresight And Patience

© George Meredith

Sprung of the father blood, the mother brain,
Are they who point our pathway and sustain.
They rarely meet; one soars, one walks retired.
When they do meet, it is our earth inspired.

The Guardian Of The Red Disk

© Emma Lazarus

Spoken by a Citizen of Malta-1300.

A curious title held in high repute,

The Miller's Maid

Near the high road upon a winding stream
An honest Miller rose to Wealth and Fame:
The noblest Virtues cheer'd his lengthen'd days,
And all the Country echo'd with his praise:
His Wife, the Doctress of the neighb'ring Poor,
Drew constant pray'rs and blessings round his door.

Botany-Bay Flowers

© Barron Field

GOD of this Planet! for the name best fits

The purblind view, which men of this "dim spot"

Politics

Gold and iron are good

To buy iron and gold;

Human Life

An hour like this is worth a thousand passed
In pomp or ease - 'Tis present to the last!
Years glide away untold - 'Tis still the same!
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came!