Great poems
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To My First Born
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide
Of hidden joy, oerpowring, deep,
Of grateful love, of womans pride,
Thrills through my heart till I must weep
With bliss to look on thee, my son,
My first born childmy darling one!
On Carpaccio's Picture
© Amy Lowell
Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floor
From some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,
Paradise Lost : Book VII.
© John Milton
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
They Say:
© Victor Marie Hugo
They say:"Be prudent" - and then comes this dithyramb:
Who thinks to strike Nero
"Tiptoes in and does not first cry out an iamb
"Nor make a bugle blow
Greeting Poem
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
There was a sound in the wind to-day,
Like a joyous cymbal ringing!
The Bowge of Courte
© John Skelton
In Autumpne whan the sonne in vyrgyne
By radyante hete enryped hath our corne
The Wound
© Gwen Harwood
The tenth day, and they give
my mirror back. Who knows
how to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass shows
the truth, fine as a hair,
of the scalpel's wounding care.
Irony
© Roderic Quinn
ALL night a great wind blew across the land,
Come fresh from wild and salty seas,
With many voices loud and low
Appealing to the sympathies
A Summer Night
© Matthew Arnold
A world above man's head, to let him see
How boundless might his soul's horizons be,
How vast, yet of what clear transparency!
How it were good to live there, and breathe free;
How fair a lot to fill
Is left to each man still!
Thus, Woman, Principle Of Life, Speaker Of The Ideal
© Paul Eluard
Between the sands of night and the waves of day
Between earth and water
No ripple to erase
No road possible
The Flag
© Arthur Symons
I lay a tattered flag before your feet
In sign of conquest. Conquerors ate proud
Saint Romualdo
© Emma Lazarus
I give God thanks that I, a lean old man,
Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains
Sunset
© Archibald Lampman
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
The Banks Of Wye - Book II
© Robert Bloomfield
Return, my Llewellyn, the glory
That heroes may gain o'er the sea,
Though nations may feel
Their invincible steel,
By falsehood is tarnish'd in story;
Why tarry, Llewellyn, from me?
Tuesday Before Easter
© John Keble
"Fill high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour
The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp,
The Cross is sharp, and He
Is tenderer than a lamb.
The River
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
UP among the dew-lit fallows
Slight but fair it took its rise,
And through rounds of golden shallows
Brightened under broadening skies;
