Good poems

 / page 109 of 545 /
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The Pure Good of Theory

© Wallace Stevens

It is time that beats in the breast and it is time
That batters against the mind, silent and proud,
The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.

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L'ADUCAZZIONE (Education)

© Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli

Fijo, nun ribbartà mai tata tua:
Abbada a tte, nun te fà mette sotto.
Si quarchiduno te viè a dà un cazzotto,
Lì callo callo tu dajene dua.

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The Fly In The Ointment

© Joseph Furphy

When the great Creator fashion'd us, and saw that we were good,
He commission'd us to dominate the planet as it stood.
But His ordinance meets denial still, and peace remains unknown,
For the Boer is always with us, calling certain lands his own.

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The Borough. Letter XI: Inns

© George Crabbe

All the comforts of life in a Tavern are known,
'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own;
And to him who has rather too much of that one,
'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to

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IV: To The World

© Benjamin Jonson

A farewell for a Gentlewoman, vertuous and noble
False world, good-night, since thou hast brought
  That houre upon my morne of age,
Hence-forth I quit thee from my thought,

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Of An Orchard

© Katharine Tynan

Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith,
To meditate on life and death,
With a cool well, a hive of bees,
A hermit's grot below the trees.

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To Others Than You

© Dylan Thomas

That though I loved them for their faults
As much as for their good,
My friends were enemies on stilts
With their heads in a cunning cloud.

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The Hermit

© Thomas Parnell

  Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
  From youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew;
  The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
  His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
  Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days,
  Pray'r all his bus'ness, all his pleasure praise.

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Marmion: Canto II. - The Convent

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

The breeze, which swept away the smoke,

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The Fishing Cure

© Edgar Albert Guest

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul

Like a day on a stream,

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Mary Garvin

© John Greenleaf Whittier

But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrow
and the sin,
The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our
own akin;

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A Cottage In A Chine

© Jean Ingelow

We reached the place by night,
  And heard the waves breaking:
They came to meet us with candles alight
  To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
  With tufted flowers down shaking.

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A Day At Tivoli - Prologue

© John Kenyon

  Yet, if All die, there are who die not All;
  (So Flaccus hoped), and half escape the pall.
  The Sacred Few! whom love of glory binds,
  "That last infirmity of noble minds,
  "To scorn delights, and live laborious days,"

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The Farewell

© Khalil Gibran

So saying he made a signal to the seamen, and straightaway they weighed anchor and cast the ship loose from its moorings, and they moved eastward.
And a cry came from the people as from a single heart, and it rose the dusk and was carried out over the sea like a great trumpeting.
Only Almitra was silent, gazing after the ship until it had vanished into the mist.
And when all the people were dispersed she still stood alone upon the sea-wall, remembering in her heart his saying,
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me."

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To Sir Henry Wotton

© John Donne

SIR, more than kisses, letters mingle souls,

For thus, friends absent speak. This ease controls

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Lady Surrey's Lament For Her Absent Lord

© Henry Howard

  Good ladies, you that have your pleasure in exile,

  Step in your foot, come take a place, and mourn with me a while,

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The Dream

© George Gordon Byron

IX.
MY dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality - the one 
To end in madness - both in misery.

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What Chris'mas Fetched The Wigginses

© James Whitcomb Riley

Wintertime, er Summertime,

  Of late years I notice I'm,

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Paradise Lost : Book I.

© John Milton


Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

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Rokeby: Canto I.

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

The Moon is in her summer glow,