Great poems

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549

There, too, that Spanish galleon of a hulk,
Ben Jonson, lying at full length,
Should so dispose his goodly bulk
That he might lie at ease upon his back,
To test the tone and strength
Of Bonifaces sherris-sack.

The Fairy Of The Fountains

© Letitia Elizabeth Landon

And a youthful warrior stands
Gazing not upon those bands,
Not upon the lovely scene,
But upon its lovelier queen,
Who with gentle word and smile
Courteous prays his stay awhile.

A Hero's Grave

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

Why should I weep? The grass is grass, the weeds
Are weeds. The emmet hath done thus ere now.
I tear a leaf; the green blood that it bleeds
Is cold. What have I here? Where, where, art thou,
My son, my son?

Adultery

© James Dickey

We have all been in rooms
We cannot die in, and they are odd places, and sad.
Often Indians are standing eagle-armed on hills

Meditation Before Sacrament

© Thomas Parnell

Arise my soul & hast away

Thy god doth call & canst thou stay

In Salem Dwelt a Glorious King

© Thomas Traherne

1

In Salem dwelt a glorious King,

The Customs Men

© Arthur Rimbaud

Those who say Gord Struth; those who say Swelp Me -

pensioned soldiers and sailors, the wreckage of Empire -

Notes To "Descent To The Dead"

© Robinson Jeffers

It seems hardly necessary to stipulate that the elegiac tone of

these verses reflects the writer's mood, and is not meant for economic

The Stealing Of The Mare - II

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Said the Narrator:
And when Abu Zeyd had made an end of speaking, and the Kadi Diab and the Sultan and Rih, and all had happened as hath been said, then the Emir Abu Zeyd mounted his running camel and bade farewell to the Arabs and was gone; and all they who remained behind were in fear thinking of his journey. But Abu Zeyd went on alone, nor stayed he before he came to the pastures of the Agheylat. And behold, in the first of their vallies as he journeyed onward the slaves of the Agheylat saw him and came upon him, threatening him with their spears, and they said to him, ``O Sheykh, who and what art thou, and what is thy story, and the reason of thy coming?'' And he said to them, ``O worthy men of the Arabs, I am a poet, of them that sing the praise of the generous and the blame of the niggardly.'' And they answered him, ``A thousand welcomes, O poet.'' And they made him alight and treated him with honour until night came upon their feasting, nor did he depart from among them until the night had advanced to a third, but remained with them, singing songs of praise, and reciting lettered phrases, until they were stirred by his words and astonished at his eloquence. And at the end of all he arrived at the praise of the Agheyli Jaber. Then stopped they him and said: ``He of whom thou speakest is the chieftain of our people, and he is a prince of the generous. Go thou, therefore, to him, and he shall give thee all, even thy heart's desire.'' And he answered them, ``Take ye care of my camel and keep her for me while I go forward to recite his praises, and on my return we will divide the gifts.'' And he left them. And as he went he set himself to devise a plan by which he might enter into the camp and entrap the Agheyli Jaber.
And the Narrator singeth of Abu Zeyd and of the herdsmen thus:

The Lonely Woman

© Mabel Forrest

WHERE the ironbarks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale,

Where the wild vines oer the ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail,

The Brave Old Ship, the Orient

© Robert Traill Spence Lowell

Woe for the brave ship Orient!
Woe for the old ship Orient!
For in broad, broad light, and with land in sight,
Where the waters bubbled white,
One great sharp shriek! One shudder of affright!
Anddown went the brave old ship, the Orient!

Les Millwin

© Ezra Pound

The little Millwins attend the Russian Ballet.
The mauve and greenish souls of the little Millwins
Were seen lying along the upper seats
Like so many unused boas.

Bayonet Song

© Sydney Thompson Dobell

For till you show me the Sacred Word
I'm for Peter and his good sword,
Only I hope if we'd drilled him here
He'd not have missed the head for the ear.

Paradise Lost : Book VI.

© John Milton

All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,

Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,

A Judgment In Heaven

Athwart the sod which is treading for God * the poet paced with his
splendid eyes;
Paradise-verdure he stately passes * to win to the Father of
Paradise,
Through the conscious and palpitant grasses * of inter-tangled
relucent dyes.

St. Valentine's Day

Let loose the sails of love and let them fill
With breezes sweet with tenderness to-day;
Scorn not the praises youthful lovers say;
Romance is old, but it is lovely still.
Not he who shows his love deserves the jeer,
But he who speaks not what she longs to hear.