WHO makes the last a pattern for next year,
Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads ;
Seen things he sees again, heard things doth hear,
And makes his life but like a pair of beads.

Thy name was lightning, and like lightning ay
Thine onset shivered, far and swift and fell:
Ever thy watchword holds us, and wheneer
The fierce Dawn breaks, and far along the sky
Roars the last battle, yet with us tis well
We keep the touch, thy hand and soul are there.

The Last Caesar

© Thomas Bailey Aldrich

In the Elysée, and had lost the day
But that around him flocked his birds of prey,
Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed.
'Twixt hope and fear beheld great Cæsar hang!
Meanwhile, methinks, a ghostly laughter rang
Through the rotunda of the Invalides.

Written in London. September, 1802

© William Wordsworth

O Friend! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

The Larks Nest

© Charlotte Turner Smith

"TRUST only to thyself;" the maxim's sound;

For, tho' life's choicest blessing be a friend,

Hero And Leander. The Fifth Sestiad

© George Chapman

Now was bright Hero weary of the day,

Thought an Olympiad in Leander's stay.

As Ireland Wore the Green

© Henry Lawson

BY RIGHT of birth in southern land I send my warning forth.
I see my country ruined by the wrongs that damned the North.
And shall I stand with fireless eyes and still and silent mouth
While Mammon builds his Londons on the fair fields of the South?

A Gallop of Fire

© Marie E J Pitt

When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
And terror is on the land.

The Cathedral tombs

THEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet
Stretched like dead feet that walk no more,
And stony masks oft human sweet,
As if the olden look each wore,
Familiar curves of lip and eye,
Were wrought by some fond memory.

The Lady of Shalott

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;

Under The Willows

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood,

Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree,

Sirmione

Give me your hand, Beloved! I cannot see;
So close from shadowy--branching tree to tree
Dark leaves hang over us. How vast and still
Night sleeps! and yet a murmur, a low thrill,

More Sonnets At Christmas I

© Allen Tate

Suppose I take an arrogant bomber, stroke
By stroke, up to the frazzled sun to hear
Sun-ghostlings whisper: Yes, the capital yoke-
Remove it and there's not a ghost to fear
This crucial day, whose decapitate joke
Languidly winds into the inner ear.