There was an Old Sailor of Compton,
Whose vessel a rock it once bump'd on;
The shock was so great,
that it damaged the pate,
Of that singular Sailor of Compton.

The Vigil Of Venus

© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Tunc liquore de superno spumeo et ponti globo,
Cærulas inter catervas, inter et bipedes equos,
Fecit undantem Dionen de maritis imbribus.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quiqiie amavit cras amet.

Ode XIII: To The Author Of Memoirs Of The House of Brandenburgh

© Mark Akenside

I.

The men renown'd as chiefs of human race,

An Unmarked Festival

© Alice Meynell

There's a feast undated, yet
Both our true lives hold it fast,-
Even the day when we first met.
What a great day came and passed,
-Unknown then, but known at last.

Pippa Passes: Part III: Evening

© Robert Browning

Mother
If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing
The utmost heaviness of music's heart.

The Death-Raven (From The Danish Of Oehlenslaeger)

© George Borrow

"The wealthy bird came towering,
Came scowering,
O'er hill and stream.
'Look here, look here, thou needy bird,
How gay my feathers gleam.'

Agamemnon In The Fight

© George Meredith

[Iliad, B. XI. V. 148]

These, then, he left, and away where ranks were now clashing the thickest,

Bread And Gravy

There's a heap o' satisfaction in a chunk o' pumpkin pie,

An' I'm always glad I'm livin' when the cake is passin' by;

Today the nation's heart lies crushed and weak;
Drooping and draped in black our banners stand.
Too stunned to cry revenge, we scarce may speak
The grief that chokes all utterance through the land.
God is in all. With tears our eyes are dim,
Yet strive through darkness to look to Him!

An Ode - In Imitation of Horace, Book III. Ode II.

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie

In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose

Mr. Edwards and the Spider

I saw the spiders marching through the air,

Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day

Homage to Hieronymus Bosch

A woman with no face walked into the light;
A boy, in a brown-tree norfolk suit,
Holding on
Without hands
To her seeming skirt.

Poems Of Joys

© Walt Whitman

O to make the most jubilant poem!
Even to set off these, and merge with these, the carols of Death.
O full of music! full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
Full of common employments! full of grain and trees.