Good poems
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Careless Mathilda
© Ann Taylor
"AGAIN, Matilda, is your work undone!
Your scissors, where are they? your thimble, gone?
Your needles, pins, and thread and tapes all lost;
Your housewife here, and there your workbag toss'd.
Falling
© James Dickey
Of a virgin sheds the long windsocks of her stockings absurd
Brassiere then feels the girdle required by regulations squirming
Off her: no longer monobuttocked she feels the girdle flutter shake
In her hand and float upward her clothes rising off her ascending
Into cloud and fights away from her head the last sharp dangerous shoe
Like a dumb bird and now will drop in soon now will drop
Reynard The Fox - Part 2
© John Masefield
Down in the village men awoke,
The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke;
The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,
Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
The Deserted
© Katharine Tynan
Thou Who wert kindest of the kind --
Since out of sight is out of mind --
There's none to do Thee kindnesses
In Thy last anguish and distress.
Thou art left all alone, alone.
Where are Thy faithful lovers flown?
Philiper Flash
© James Whitcomb Riley
Young Philiper Flash was a promising lad,
His intentions were good--but oh, how sad
"Look up, desponding hearts! See, Morning sallies"
© Alfred Austin
Look up, desponding hearts! See, Morning sallies
From out her tents behind the screening hill,
Crusaders
© William Wordsworth
FURL we the sails, and pass with tardy oars
Through these bright regions, casting many a glance
The Black Sheep
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
"Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?"
"Yes, sir-yes, sir: a whole world full."
The Borough. Letter XVII: The Hospital And
© George Crabbe
Govenors
AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian love,
To A Cape Ann Schooner
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Luck to the craft that bears this name of mine,
Good fortune follow with her golden spoon
Parisina
© George Gordon Byron
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
The Silver Box
© Alice Guerin Crist
Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
Is written of our modern times,
No myth of long ago.
The Weaver
© Archibald Lampman
All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
"Oh, come away, or we die!"
One Day And Another: A Lyrical Eclogue Part II
© Madison Julius Cawein
Here at last! And do you know
That again you've kept me waiting?
Wondering, anticipating,
If your "yes" meant "no."
Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur (excerpt)
© Alfred Tennyson
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
And whiter than the mist that all day long
Had held the field of battle was the King:
