Good poems

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Writing To Onegin

© Ruth Padel

(After Pushkin)
Look at the bare wood hand-waxed floor and long
White dressing-gown, the good child's writing-desk
And passionate cold feet

Icicles Round A Tree In Dumfriesshire

© Ruth Padel

We're talking different kinds of vulnerability here.

To The Small Celandine

© William Wordsworth

PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;

I Rose Up As My Custom Is

© Thomas Hardy

I rose up as my custom is
On the eve of All-Souls' day,
And left my grave for an hour or so
To call on those I used to know
Before I passed away.

So Rip began to look at peopleâs tongues
And thump their briskets (called it âsound their lungs"),
Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could,
Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good.
The town was healthy; for a month or two
He gave the sexton little work to do.

The Miller Of Dee

© Charles Mackay

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,

Beside the river Dee;

M'Fingal - Canto I

© John Trumbull

When Yankies, skill'd in martial rule,

First put the British troops to school;

Don't You Know

© Edgar Albert Guest

H'it's h'easy to be 'appy,

Don't you know;

Heretics All

© Hilaire Belloc

Heretics all, whoever you may be,
In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea,
You never shall have good words from me.
Caritas non conturbat me.

A Spiritual Manifestation

© John Greenleaf Whittier

To-day the plant by Williams set
Its summer bloom discloses;
The wilding sweethrier of his prayers
Is crowned with cultured roses.

The Death and Last Confession of Wandering Peter

© Hilaire Belloc

When Peter Wanderwide was young
He wandered everywhere he would:
All that he approved was sung,
And most of what he saw was good.

Is there any reward?

© Hilaire Belloc

Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.
I am broken and bored,
Is there any reward

Drinking Song, On the Excellence of Burgundy Wine

© Hilaire Belloc

My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin,
Come, open the door to us, let us come in.
A score of stout fellows who think it no sin
If they toast till they're hoarse, and drink till they spin,

October

© Hilaire Belloc

Mine host the month, at thy good hostelry,
Tired limbs I'll stretch and steaming beast I'll tether;
Pile on great logs with Gascon hand and free,
And pour the Gascon stuff that laughs at weather;
Swell your tough lungs, north wind, no whit care we,
Singing old songs and drinking wine together.

Godolphin Horne

Who was cursed with the Sin of Pride, and Became a Boot-Black. Godolphin Horne was Nobly Born;
He held the Human Race in Scorn,
And lived with all his Sisters where
His father lived, in Berkeley Square.

News to the king, good news for all

"NEWS to the king, good news for all,"
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
"News of the battle," the heralds call,
"We have won the field; we have taken the town;
We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down."
And the dying lie with the dead.

The Pelagian Drinking Song

Pelagius lived at Kardanoel
And taught a doctrine there
How, whether you went to heaven or to hell
It was your own affair.
It had nothing to do with the Church, my boy,
But was your own affair.

The Lion

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Boris Godunov

Boyars, The People, Inspectors, Officers, Attendants, Guests,
a Boy in attendance on Prince Shuisky, a Catholic Priest, a
Polish Noble, a Poet, an Idiot, a Beggar, Gentlemen, Peasants,
Guards, Russian, Polish, and German Soldiers, a Russian
Prisoner of War, Boys, an old Woman, Ladies, Serving-women.