Good poems
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Almost taste the flavour
© Ivan Donn Carswell
It was a fat-tyred 4WD utility hard back,
the sort of ute youd expect a contractor
to drive, except it was plastered with tacky
stickers, and no genuine subby does that.
In Memory Of The Late John Thornton, Esq.
© William Cowper
Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Fragments from "Under The Lilacs".
© Louisa May Alcott
"So he took up his bow,
And he feathered his arrow,
And said, 'I will shoot
This little cock-sparrow.'"
Death
© George Herbert
Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
Absorbed in familiar rhythms
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Absorbed in familiar rhythms,
carillon of senses steeped
in good vibrations, surrounded
by musical beat
The Wandering Pilgrim
© Matthew Prior
Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no,
Th' allowance is too scant.
The Black Cottage
© Robert Frost
We chanced in passing by that afternoon
To catch it in a sort of special picture
An excerpt from "Mass for the Day of St. Thomas Didymus"
© Denise Levertov
iiGloriaPraise the wet snow
falling early.
Praise the shadow
my neighor's chimney casts on the tile roof
Electra On Azalea Path
© Sylvia Plath
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
Stepping Westward
© Denise Levertov
What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
Zeroing In
© Denise Levertov
"I am a landscape," he said,
"a landscape and a person walking in that landscape.
There are daunting cliffs there,
and plains glad in their way
Sound Sleep
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.
By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
Sonnet: "It is not to be thought of"
© William Wordsworth
IT is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Maiden-Song
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
But I have a will to work,
And a heart for you:
Bid me stay or bid me go.'
Crumble-Hall
© Mary Leapor
When Friends or Fortune frown on Mira's Lay,
Or gloomy Vapours hide the Lamp of Day;
With low'ring Forehead, and with aching Limbs,
Oppress'd with Head-ach, and eternal Whims,
Sad Mira vows to quit the darling Crime:
Yet takes her Farewel, and Repents, in Rhyme.
The Borough. Letter XVIII: The Poor And Their
© George Crabbe
applause:
To her own house is borne the week's supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to
Lines To ---.
© Frances Anne Kemble
When 'twas my hap to meet you, for awhile
Our paths together layand each one brought
Lallegro
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Felicity!
Who ope'st to none that knocks, yet, laughing weak,
San Borondon
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
Saint Brandan, a Scotch abbot, long ago
Sailed southward with a swarm of monks, to sow
The seeds of true religion nothing else
Among the tribes of naked infidels.
The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble
© John Gay
Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fallen calf;
Wo worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.
