Good poems

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545

To her most Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Esq; these humbly presented.

© Anne Bradstreet

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight

Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white,

The Broken Circle

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

I STOOD On Sarum's treeless plain,
The waste that careless Nature owns;
Lone tenants of her bleak domain,
Loomed huge and gray the Druid stones.

Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester-or Milson Street-remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!

Instinct

© Cesare Pavese

From the door of his house in the gentle sunshine
the old man, disillusioned with everything,
watches the dog and the bitch as they follow instinct.

The Loons

© Archibald Lampman

And now, though many hundred altering years
Have passed, among the desolate northern meres
Still must ye search and wander querulously,
Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light
With weird entreaties, and in agony
With awful laughter pierce the lonely night.

The Slave Dealer

© Thomas Pringle

From ocean's wave a Wanderer came,
With visage tanned and dun:
His Mother, when he told his name,
Scarce knew her long-lost son;
So altered was his face and frame
By the ill course he had run.

Sonnet 41: Having This Day My Horse

© Sir Philip Sidney

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance

Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,

No News From The War

© Augusta Davies Webster

"IS she sitting in the meadow
Where the brook leaps to the mill,
Leaning low against the poplar,
Dreamily and still?

This World

© George MacDonald

Thy world is made to fit thine own,
A nursery for thy children small,
The playground-footstool of thy throne,
Thy solemn school-room, Father of all!
When day is done, in twilight's gloom,
We pass into thy presence-room.

Love's Saint

© William Baylebridge

Some lip will use her name-a rapt surprise,

Passing the heart's set ward, upon me steals.

A Pastoral Courtship

© Thomas Randolph

Let's enter, and discourse our Loves;
These are, my dear, no tell-tale groves!
There dwell no Pyes, nor Parrots there,
To prate again the words they heare.
Nor babling Echo, that will tell
The neighbouring hills one syllable.

The Sense Of Your Bidding

© Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin

The sense of your bidding is unclear:
to pray, to curse, is it, to fight
you bid me, inscrutable genius?
The spring slackens, niggard, meager,
and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier
dozes in the drowsy thickets.

With A Copy of: "In Memoriam"

© George MacDonald

Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
And here is one for your regard.
You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

The Spirit Of The Ideal

Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses
Stream on the night-winds as ye float along,
Missioned with hope to man-and with caresses

Sonnet XIX

But since, in all that brief Life's narrow scope,
No day pass'd by without some gentle deed,
Let us not "mourn like them that have no hope,"
Though sharp the stroke,--and suddenly decreed;

THE DUMB ORATORS; OR THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY.

That all men would be cowards if they dare,

Mira's Will

© Mary Leapor

IMPRIMIS - My departed Shade I trust
To Heav'n - My Body to the silent Dust;
My Name to publick Censure I submit,
To be dispos'd of as the World thinks fit;