Friendship poems

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Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme!
O teach me what is good! teach me Thyself!
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit; and feed my soul
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure,
Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!

"Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind"

© William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

Bereavement

© William Lisle Bowles

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,

Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!

Mutability ["The flower that smiles to-day"]

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

Fragment 10: The Three Sorts of Friends

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Though friendships differ endless in degree ,
The sorts , methinks, may be reduced to three.
Ac quaintance many, and Con quaintance few;
But for In quaintance I know only two—
The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!

Beowulf (modern English translation)

© Pierre Reverdy

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

Portrait of a Lady

© Thomas Stearns Eliot

The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.

Home 1

© Edward Thomas

Not the end: but there's nothing more.
Sweet Summer and Winter rude
I have loved, and friendship and love,
The crowd and solitude:

Romantics

© Paul Eluard

Johannes Brahms and
Clara Schumann ?

Epistle from Mrs. Yonge to Her Husband

© Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Think not this paper comes with vain pretense

To move your pity, or to mourn th offense.

Ferdiah; Or, The Fight At The Ford

© Denis Florence MacCarthy

Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise,
Time for the fearful combat to prepare;
For hither with the anger in his eyes,
To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair.

A Vision of Poesy

© Henry Timrod

PART I

I

Fidelis

© Adelaide Anne Procter

You have taken back the promise

That you spoke so long ago;

The Supper

Blind Roger
Set the glass in my hand. I'm blind and old,
But still I shun to be left in the cold.

from The Bridge: Quaker Hill

© Hart Crane

Above them old Mizzentop, palatial white
Hostelry—floor by floor to cinquefoil dormer
Portholes the ceilings stack their stoic height.
Long tiers of windows staring out toward former
Faces—loose panes crown the hill and gleam
At sunset with a silent, cobwebbed patience . . .