Good poems
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Edwin and Eltruda, a Legendary Tale
© Helen Maria Williams
Where the pure Derwent's waters glide
Along their mossy bed,
Close by the river's verdant side,
A castle rear'd its head.
Amities
© Ezra Pound
You wore the same quite correct clothing,
You took no pleasure at all in my triumphs,
You had the same old air of condescension
Mingled with a curious fear
That I, myself, might have enjoyed them.
Te Voilel, mon Bourrienne, you also shall be immortal.
The Cemetary Of Eylau
© Victor Marie Hugo
This to my elder brothers, schoolboys gay,
Was told by Uncle Louis on a day;
Tale XIII
© George Crabbe
hall,
Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all,
She then abounded, and had wealth to spare
For softening grief she once was doom'd to share;
Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to
HMS Pinafore: Act I
© William Schwenck Gilbert
SCENE - Quarter-deck of H.M.S. Pinafore. Sailors, led by
Boatswain, discovered cleaning brasswork, splicing rope, etc.
The Chapel of the Hermits
© John Greenleaf Whittier
"I do believe, and yet, in grief,
I pray for help to unbelief;
For needful strength aside to lay
The daily cumberings of my way.
The Pastime of Pleasure : The First Part.
© Stephen Hawes
Here begynneth the passe tyme of pleasure.
Ryyght myghty prynce / & redoubted souerayne
Saylynge forthe well / in the shyppe of grace
Ouer the wawes / of this lyfe vncertayne
Walking With God
© John Newton
By faith in Christ I walk with God,
With heav'n, my journeys'-end, in view;
Supported by his staff and rod,
My road is safe and pleasant too,
Within and Without: Part III: A Dramatic Poem
© George MacDonald
SCENE I.-Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single
candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib. JULIAN
sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks
older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer.
Mazeppa
© George Gordon Byron
'Twas after dread Pultowa's day,
When fortune left the royal Swede--
Around a slaughtered army lay,
No more to combat and to bleed.
In Memory: James T. Fields
© John Greenleaf Whittier
As a guest who may not stay
Long and sad farewells to say
Glides with smiling face away,
A Farewell
© Harriet Monroe
GOOD-BY: nay, do not grieve that it is over
The perfect hour;
That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.
The Force Of Prayer, Or, The Founding Of Bolton, A Tradition
© William Wordsworth
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?
The Test
© Edgar Albert Guest
You can brag about the famous men you know;
You may boast about the great men you have met,
The Black Preacher: A Breton Legend
© James Russell Lowell
Something like this, then, my guide had to tell,
Perched on a saint cracked across when he fell;
But since I might chance give his meaning a wrench,
He talking his _patois_ and I English-French,
I'll put what he told me, preserving the tone,
In a rhymed prose that makes it half his, half my own.
Old Santeclaus
© Clement Clarke Moore
Old SANTECLAUS with much delight
His reindeer drives this frosty night,
Oer chimney-tops, and tracks of snow,
To bring his yearly gifts to you.
The Golden Key
© George MacDonald
From off the earth the vapours curled,
Went up to meet their joy;
The boy awoke, and all the world
Was waiting for the boy!
The Sheep
© Ellis Parker Butler
The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
And is both singular and plural
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, "A flock of sheeps."
To One In A Garden
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
If I were other than, alas, I am,
A soul in strife, whom banded foemen vex,
If toil were folly and good deeds a sham,
And hydra wrong had shed its serpent necks,
Silent Music by Floyd Skloot: American Life in Poetry #94 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
While many of the poems we feature in this column are written in open forms, that's not to say I don't respect good writing done in traditional meter and rhyme. But a number of contemporary poets, knowing how a rigid attachment to form can take charge of the writing and drag the poet along behind, will choose, say, the traditional villanelle form, then relax its restraints through the use of broken rhythm and inexact rhymes. I'd guess that if I weren't talking about it, you might not notice, reading this poem by Floyd Skloot, that you were reading a sonnet.
Silent Music
