Great poems
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Sleep And Poetry
© John Keats
As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight
[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese. ~ Chaucer
La Solitude De St. Amant /La Solitude A Alcidon /
© Katherine Philips
1
O! Solitude, my sweetest choice
Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult, and from noise,
Ode to a Man of Letters
© John Logan
Lo, winter's hoar dominion past!
Arrested in his eastern blast
The fiend of nature flies;
Breathing the spring, the zephyrs play,
And re-enthroned the Lord of day
Resumes the golden skies.
Nathan The Wise - Act I
© Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
O Nathan, Nathan,
How miserable you had nigh become
During this little absence; for your house -
To A Certain Nation
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
We will not let thee be, for thou art ours.
We thank thee still, though thou forget these things,
For that hour's sake when thou didst wake all powers
With a great cry that God was sick of kings.
The King's Task
© Rudyard Kipling
After the sack of the City when Rome was sunk to a name,
In the years that the lights were darkened, or ever St. Wilfrid
An Epitaph on the Death of Nicholas Grimald
© Barnabe Googe
A thousand doltish geese we might have spared,
A thousand witless heads death might have found,
A taken them for whom no man had cared,
And laid them low in deep oblivious ground:
But fortune favors fool, as old men say,
And lets them live, and takes the wise away.
Of Pearls And Stars
© Heinrich Heine
The pearly treasures of the sea,
The lights that spatter heaven above,
More precious than these wonders are
My heart-of-hearts filled with your love.
The Man Who Saw
© William Watson
The master weavers at the enchanted loom
Of Legend, weaving long ago those tales
La Muse Malade (The Sick Muse)
© Charles Baudelaire
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
© George Gordon Byron
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
The Almighty Conqueror.
© Mather Byles
I.
Awake my Heart, awake my Tongue,
Sound each melodious String;
In num'rous Verse and lofty Song,
To thee, my GOD, I sing.
Sitting On The Shore
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
THE tide has ebbed away:
No more wild dashings 'gainst the adamant rocks,
Nor swayings amidst sea-weed false that mocks
The hues of gardens gay:
Trivia; or the Art of Walking the Streets of London: Book I.
© John Gay
Of the Implements for Walking the Streets,
and Signs of the Weather.
The Wreck
© Harry Kemp
Seared bone-white by the glare of summer weather,
Cast side-long, on the barren beach she lies,
She who once brought the earth's far ends together
And ransacked East and West for merchandise.
Empire Building
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
"I'll teach them how to work, and how to pray."
Oh, John, you never think before your day
Rome was, Greece wascan one believe it true?
Great Egypt died, and never heard of you!
Arisen At Last
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I SAID I stood upon thy grave,
My Mother State, when last the moon
Of blossoms clomb the skies of June.
And, scattering ashes on my head,
The Singer
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Years since (but names to me before),
Two sisters sought at eve my door;
Two song-birds wandering from their nest,
A gray old farm-house in the West.
