Great poems
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Nightmare
© Conrad Aiken
I sit before the gold-embroidered curtain
And think her face is like a wrinkled desert.
The crystal burns in lamplight beneath my eyes.
A dragon slowly coils on the scaly curtain.
Upon a scarlet cloth a white skull lies.
A Portrait
© Bliss William Carman
A. M. M.
BEHOLD her sitting in the sun
This lovely April morn,
As eager with the breath of life
The Shepherd's Wife's Song
© Robert Greene
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,
And merrier, too:
For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
The Child's Music Lesson
© Archibald Lampman
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?
Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?
The Hand In The Dark
© Ada Cambridge
How calm the spangled city spread below!
How cool the night! How fair the starry skies!
How sweet the dewy breezes! But I know
What, under all their seeming beauty, lies.
Ode to Rae Wilson Esq.
© Thomas Hood
Mere verbiage,it is not worth a carrot!
Why, Socratesor Platowhere's the odds?
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
The Shag
© Celia Thaxter
"What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
Perched high on the top of the crag?"
"'T is the cormorant, dear little brother;
The fishermen call it the shag."
The Princess (part 6)
© Alfred Tennyson
My dream had never died or lived again.
As in some mystic middle state I lay;
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard:
Though, if I saw not, yet they told me all
So often that I speak as having seen.
Childish Recollections
© George Gordon Byron
'I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me.'
WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains,
Chills the warm, tide which flows along the veins
A Welcome From The "Johnson Club"
© Henry Austin Dobson
When Pope came back from Trojan wars once more,
He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,
And hail his advent with a strain as clear
As e'er was sung by BYRON or by FRERE.
The Devil Of Pope-Fig Island
© Jean de La Fontaine
ON t'other hand an island may be seen,
Where all are hated, cursed, and full of spleen.
We know them by the thinness of their face
Long sleep is quite excluded from their race.
Heath from the Highlands
© Henry Kendall
Here, where the great hills fall away
To bays of silver sea,
I hold within my hand to-day
A wild thing, strange to me.
The Greatest Gift
© Blanche Edith Baughan
IF of us two might only one be glad,
Pain Id pursue, and struggle to be sad.
If of us two one only might be great,
Safely obscure Id triumph in my fate.
O Soul more dear than mine! if of us two
One only might love God, it should be you.
In The Solitude
© John Hall Wheelock
You do not love me, and at last I know
How far lies the lost land for which I pine-
But in the lonely passion of my mood
I feel your pulses toward my pulses flow,
And the dear blood that, through your hand, to mine,
Whispers her pity in the solitude.
The Things That Count
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Now, dear, it isn't the bold things,
Great deeds of valour and might,
New Year's Eve
© Archibald Lampman
Once on the year's last eve in my mind's might
Sitting in dreams, not sad, nor quite elysian,
The Two Painters: A Tale
© Washington Allston
At which, with fix'd and fishy
The Strangers both express'd amaze.
Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare
Such meanness of yourself declare.
