God poems
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Half Moon
© Hyde Robin
The little pools of starlight splashAgainst the poplars' slender lines;The moon is like a golden comb,Caught in the tresses of the pines.
Passtime with good company
© Henry VIII, King of England
Pastime with good companyI love and shall unto I die
I. M. R.T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899) [Invictus]
© William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
Pachelbel’s Canon
© Greene Richard
Is there a word or the fading of a noteas it leaves the string and nothing follows
Confessio Amantis, Book III: The Tale of Apollonius of Tyre
© John Gower
Appolinus his leve tok,To God and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod
Ordinary, Moving
© Gotlieb Phyllis
is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out
the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song
this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever
Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba
The Deserted Village, A Poem
© Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
Homeward Bound
© Gibbon Perceval
It's goodbye now to Africa, but kiss your hand againTo the upland trek and the old trade road and kop and kloof and plain; There's another trek instead for us, And a long strange road ahead for us,But never the old home outspan, however the team may strain
Flaxman
© Fuller Margaret
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wroughtEternal beauty from the sculptured stone,-A higher charm than modern culture won With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore
To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut
© Philip Morin Freneau
Nil Mortalibus ard unum lestCoelum ipsum petimus stuttistra. HORACE.
Alexander's Feast
© John Dryden
I By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were plac'd around;Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crown'd
Idea LI
© Michael Drayton
Calling to mind since first my love begun,Th' incertain times oft varying in their course,How things still unexpectedly have run,As t' please the fates by their resistless force:Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seenEssex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,The quiet end of that long-living Queen,This King's fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever:Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel
La Belle et la Bête
© Mark Doty
"My heart," he said, "is the heartof a beast." What could she dobut love him? First she must resist:the copper bowls gleaming on the rack
Isis: Dorothy Eady, 1924
© Mark Doty
I was never this beautiful.I don't know if anyone can see how much moreI've become tonight, when the boys hired to play Nubians still the peacock fans, and another girl and I,
The Perfume
© John Donne
Once, and but once found in thy company,All thy suppos'd escapes are laid on me;And as a thief at bar is question'd thereBy all the men that have been robb'd that year,So am I, (by this traitorous means surpriz'd)By thy hydroptic father catechiz'd
