Good poems

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Words From The Wind

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I called to the wind of the Winter,
As he sped like a steed on his way,
"Oh! rest for awhile on thy journey,
And answer these questions, I pray.

WHEN youve managed with the tailor for a rig-out of a sort
And you find the coat or trousers are an inch or so too short,
Do not fret and swear and worry, make the tailor see you through
I have been through many new suits, Im an older man than you.

Inasmuch As Ye Did It Not . . .

© Edith Nesbit

If Jesus came to London,

Came to London to-day,

Spring Longing

© Emma Lazarus

Lilac hazes veil the skies.
Languid sighs
Breathes the mild, caressing air.
Pink as coral's branching sprays,
Orchard ways
With the blossomed peach are fair.

Childhood

© Jens Baggesen

There was a time when I was very small,
When my whole frame was but an ell in height;
Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,
And therefore I recall it with delight.

Out At Pelletier's

© Edgar Albert Guest

OUT at Pelletier's where the blooded pigeons fly,

An' the tony Shetland ponies romp and play,

Tale XX

© George Crabbe

flown:
All swept away, to be perceived no more,
Like idle structures on the sandy shore,
The chance amusement of the playful boy,
That the rude billows in their rage destroy.
Poor George confess'd, though loth the truth to

On Divine Love By Meditating On The Wounds Of Christ

© Thomas Parnell

Holy Jesus! God of Love!

Look with pity from above,

With Dickens

© Henry Lawson

In Windsor Terrace, number four,

Ive taken my abode

Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXXIII

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Such was the legend. I had read it through
Twice ere I thought of thinking what it meant.
And as I turned with a sigh because I knew
That I alone perhaps of all who went

Dominique

© William Henry Drummond

"I'd tak' dat leetle feller Dominique,
An' I'd put heem on de cellar ev'ry day,
An' for workin' out a cure, bread an' water's very sure,
You can bet he mak' de promise not to play!"

A Eunuch Complains Of His Fate

© Confucius

A few fine lines, at random drawn,
Like the shell-pattern wrought in lawn
To hasty glance will seem.
My trivial faults base slander's slime
Distorted into foulest crime,
And men me worthless deem.

The Lord Will Provide

© John Newton

Though troubles assail

And dangers affright,

Go Get The Goodly Squab

© Sylvia Plath

Go get the goodly squab in gold-lobed corn
And pluck the droll-flecked quail where thick they lie;
Reap the round blue pigeon from roof ridge,
But let the fast-feathered eagle fly.

Advent

This Advent moon shines cold and clear,

These Advent nights are long;

Premonition

The muffled syllables that Nature speaks
Fill us with deeper longing for her word;
She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks,
She makes a sweeter music than is heard.