Great poems

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549

The Shakedown on the Floor

© Henry Lawson

Set me back for twenty summers

For Im tired of cities now

The Wood

© Madison Julius Cawein

Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;
And there the oak and hickory;
Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and near
As the eased eye can see.

Summer In England, 1914

© Alice Meynell

On London fell a clearer light;
Caressing pencils of the sun
Defined the distances, the white
Houses transfigured one by one,
The 'long, unlovely street' impearled.
O what a sky has walked the world!

To His Father

© Robinson Jeffers

Christ was your lord and captain all your life,

He fails the world but you he did not fail,

The Poet's Song

© Archibald Lampman

There came no change from week to week
On all the land, but all one way,
Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak,
Day followed day.

The Responsibility Of Fatherhood

© Edgar Albert Guest

BEFORE you came, my little lad,

I used to think that I was good,

A Book of Dreams: Part II

© George MacDonald

A great church in an empty square,
A place of echoing tones;
Feet pass not oft enough to wear
The grass between the stones.

A Postscript unto the Reader

© Michael Wigglesworth

And now good Reader, I return again

To talk with thee, who hast been at the pain

Coronation Poem And Prayer

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

The world has crowned a thousand kings:

But destiny has kept

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05:

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.

Hymn 117

© Isaac Watts

Behold the potter and the clay,
He forms his vessels as he please:
Such is our God, and such are we,
The subjects of his high decrees.

Esau

© John Newton

Poor Esau repented too late

That once he his birth-right despised;

I Never Saw Youe, Madam, Laye Aparte

© Henry Howard

I never saw youe, madam, laye aparte

Your cornet black in colde nor yet in heate

To My Country

With love of my own race I cling unto my country,
Whatever dubious reason may protesting cry;
The shame alone of all her blood bought glory,
Her haughty self-assurance, conscious pride,
And the ancestral faith's traditions dark,
With woe have penetrated all my heart.

A Deepe Groane Fetch'd at the Funerall of that incomparable and Glorious Monarch, CHARLES THE FIRST

© Henry King

To speak our Griefes as full over thy Tombe

(Great Soul) we should be Thunder-struck, and dumbe:

Remonstrance

Oh! why those narrow rules extol?
These but restrain from ill,
True virtue lies in strength of soul
And energy of will.

An Hymne In Honour Of Beautie

Ah! whither, Love! wilt thou now carry mee?
What wontlesse fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whylest seeking to aslake thy raging fyre,