Friendship poems
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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
Bleinheim, a Poem
© Philips John
From low and abject themes the grov'ling museNow mounts aërial, to sing of armsTriumphant, and emblaze the martial actsOf Britain's hero; may the verse not sinkBeneath his merits, but detain a whileThy ear, O Harley, (though thy country's wealDepends on thee, though mighty Anne requiresThy hourly counsels) since with ev'ry artThy self adorn'd, the mean essays of youthThou wilt not damp, but guide, wherever found,The willing genius to the muses' seat:Therefore thee first, and last, the muse shall sing
A Satire, in Imitation of the Third of Juvenal
© John Oldham
Though much concern'd to leave my dear old friend,I must however his design commendOf fixing in the country: for were IAs free to choose my residence, as he;The Peak, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Land's End,I would prefer to Fleet Street, or the Strand
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
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
A Shropshire Lad LXII: "Terence, this is stupid stuff
© Alfred Edward Housman
"Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer
Ben Bolt
© English Thomas Dunn
Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -- Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone,They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey, And Alice lies under the stone
An Evening Contemplation in a College
© Duncombe John
The Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates,With jarring sound the porter turns the key,Then in his dreary mansion slumb'ring waits,And slowly, sternly quits it -- tho' for me.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third
© George Gordon Byron
I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope
The Trinity Cake
© Burke Johnny
As I leaned o'er the rail of the Eagle, The letter boy brought unto me,A little gilt edged invitation, Saying the girls want you over to tea,Sure I know the O'Hooligans sent it, And I went, just for ould friendship sakeWhen the first thing they gave me to tackle, Was a slice of the Trinity Cake
The Mockery of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
God! What a mockery is this life of ours!Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb,Most like an excrement, and weeping showersOf senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb,The symbol of all weakness and the sum:Our very life a sufferance
To Mrs. P********, with some Drawings of Birds and Insects
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire,One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. (Pope)
