Great poems

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Negro Spirituals

© Anonymous

Blow your trumpet, Gabriel.
Lord, how loud shall I blow it?
Blow it right calm and easy,
Do not alarm my people,
Tell dem to come to judgment,
In dat great gittin-up Mornin, etc.

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet,
And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was litter'd;
And under and over the branches those little birds twitter'd,
While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven.
A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven.

Old Stone Chimney

© Henry Lawson

The rising moon on the peaks was blending

Her silver light with the sunset glow,

The Appeal Of The Chorus

© Aristophanes

But now for the gentle reproaches he bore
On the part of his friends, for refraining before
To embrace the profession, embarking for life
In theatrical storms and poetical strife.

To The Reader Of University Notes

© Robert Fuller Murray

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats?

A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - August

© George MacDonald

1.

SO shall abundant entrance me be given

The Going Of The Battery [Wive's Lament November 2nd 1899]

© Thomas Hardy

O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough -
Light in their loving as soldiers can be -
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .

By The Fireside : Resignation

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

We Fought for - South of the Walls

© Li Po

Died for - North of the Ramparts(to an old tune)

We fought for Mulberry Springs

The Muses Threnodie: Seventh Muse

© Henry Adamson

To Moncrieff eastern, then to Wallace town,
To Fingask of Dundas; thence passing down
Unto the Rynd, as martial men we fare;
What life man's heart could wish more void of care?
Passing the river Earn, on the other side,
Drilling our sojers, vulgars were afraid.

Song Of Sardanapalus

© Hume Nisbet

I
'WHAT am I? a God or Man?
Man is God when great and rich
God is man when in the ditch.
Ho, there! servers, fill each can!

The Horse Thief

There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyons lip.
His mane was mixed with the moonlight that silvered his snow-white side,
For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the wake of a spectral ship.
I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my lariat coil looped wide.