Good poems
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Dad's a Millionaire
© Henry Clay Work
Hurrah! hurrah! now give us a rousing song-
Good bye! good bye! to poverty, want and care;
The fortune's come, we've waited for so long,
And Dad's a millionaire!
Italy : 31. A Funeral
© Samuel Rogers
'Whence this delay?' "Along the crowded street
A Funeral comes, and with unusual pomp."
So I withdrew a little, and stood still,
While it went by. 'She died as she deserved,'
A Christmas Colloquy
© John Crowe Ransom
ANN:
Father, what will there be for me
To-morrow on the Christmas tree?
Have you told Santa what to bring,
My pony, my doll, and everything?
The Prayer
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
"Many worlds have I made," said the Good God,
"But this is best of all,"
On Mr. Howard's Account Of Lazarettos
© William Lisle Bowles
Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude,
The path of good right onward hast pursued;
The Shepherd Lady
© Jean Ingelow
Who pipes upon the long green hill,
Where meadow grass is deep?
The white lamb bleats but followeth on-
Follow the clean white sheep.
The dear white lady in yon high tower,
She hearkeneth in her sleep.
Fand, A Feerie Act II
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One is of sunshine and one of rain,
And one of the moonlight without a stain.
The moonlight people, of these are we,
The ever--happy, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.
To Santa Claus
© James Whitcomb Riley
Most tangible of all the gods that be,
O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy!
As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then,
Take us as children to thy heart again.
Gold.
© Robert Crawford
Ah, Gold! 'tis filthy lucre, honour's shame,
For which so many a Judas still sells truth!
It is the devil's lure; yet good men use it,
And many a dove for sacrifice within
The temple's been sold for it.
L'Envoi
© Herman Melville
My towers at last! These rovings end,
Their thirst is slaked in larger dearth:
The yearning infinite recoils,
For terrible is earth.
Trinitie Sunday
© George Herbert
Lord, who hast formed me out of mud,
And hast redeemed me through thy bloud,
And sanctified me to do good;
A dialogue between Sir Henry Wootton and Mr. Donne
© John Donne
IF her disdain least change in you can move,
You do not love,
For when that hope gives fuel to the fire,
You sell desire.
Love is not love, but given free ;
And so is mine ; so should yours be.
The Hoosier
© Hew Ainslie
We lads that live up in the nobs,
Tho' our manners might yet bear a rubbing,
Lines Written Under The Conviction That It Is Not Wise To Read Mathematics In November After Ones F
© James Clerk Maxwell
In the sad November time,
When the leaf has left the lime,
So Long, Chinook!
© Henry Herbert Knibbs
Chinook, you're free: there's plenty pasture there:
Your gallant years have earned you more ... and
yet ..
Go on and graze! Don't stand like that and stare!
Now quit your nosing! No, I'll not forget.
Our State
© John Greenleaf Whittier
THE South-land boasts its teeming cane,
The prairied West its heavy grain,
And sunset's radiant gates unfold
On rising marts and sands of gold!
The Child's Grave
© Edmund Blunden
I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
That I sang for delight as I followed the way.
