Good poems
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Slowly the Black Earth Gains
© George Santayana
Slowly the black earth gains upon the yellow,
And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows.
Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman,
Guiding thy oxen.
A Florida Sunday.
© Sidney Lanier
From cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seas
Oft come repenting tempests here to die;
Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,
They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh,
A Florida Ghost.
© Sidney Lanier
Down mildest shores of milk-white sand,
By cape and fair Floridian bay,
Twixt billowy pines -- a surf asleep on land --
And the great Gulf at play,
A Dedication. To Charlotte Cushman.
© Sidney Lanier
As Love will carve dear names upon a tree,
Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,So thought I thine with loving text to set
In the growth and substance of my canzonet;But, writing it, my tears begin to fall --
This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain
The Green Above The Red
© Thomas Osborne Davis
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and _scian_,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
The Mores
© John Clare
Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green
That never felt the rage of blundering plough
Though centurys wreathed spring's blossoms on its brow
The Charm
© Edith Nesbit
LIKE crimson lamps the tulips swing,
The lily flowers their incense bring,
The daisies votive garlands fling
Before the altar of the Spring.
The Parisian Orgy
© Arthur Rimbaud
O cowards! There she is!
Pile out into the stations!
The sun with its fiery lungs blew clear
the boulevards that, one evening,
the Barbarians filled.
Christmass
© John Clare
Christmass is come and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now
Een want will dry its tears in mirth
And crown him wi a holly bough
Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken
© Henry Francis Lyte
Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee.
Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be.
Perish every fond ambition, all Ive sought or hoped or known.
Yet how rich is my condition! God and heaven are still mine own.
Sowing
© Edward Thomas
IT was a perfect day
For sowing; just
As sweet and dry was the ground
As tobacco-dust.
To A Poor Old Woman
© William Carlos Williams
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
As the Team's Head- Brass
© Edward Thomas
As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed the angle of the fallow, and
A Private
© Edward Thomas
This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
On Himself
© John Donne
My fortune and my choice this custom break,
When we are speechless grown to make stones speak.
His Santa Claus
© Edgar Albert Guest
He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy,
An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy;
Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head,
And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed,
But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance;
This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.
Sunthin' In The Pastoral Line
© James Russell Lowell
Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,
An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',
When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,
An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four,
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.
The Swamp Angel
© Anonymous
Angels of good and ill are every where;
They haunt the city and the cottage lone;
Their seen or unseen presence fills the air,
And feels the stir of every laugh and moan.
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: CII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
THE VENUS OF MILO
What art thou? Woman? Goddess? Aphrodite?
Yet never such as thou from the cold foam
Of ocean, nor from cloudy heaven might come,
