Great poems
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The Vernal Age
© Philip Morin Freneau
WHERE the pheasant roosts at night,
Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,
Where the evening breezes sigh
Solitary, there stray I.
The Republican Genius of Europe
© Philip Morin Freneau
Emporers and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal--
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.
On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature
© Philip Morin Freneau
ALL that we see, about, abroad,
What is it all, but nature's God?
In meaner works discovered here
No less than in the starry sphere.
Sonnets of the Empire: Hawk
© Archibald Thomas Strong
Great sea dog, fighter in the great old way!
What though thy ships were tinder, and the pest
On Receiving a Crown of Ivy from John Keats
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
It is what's within us crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state
Of natural good befitting such desires,
Towns without gain, and hunted solitudes.
A Thought or Two on Reading Pomfret's
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
I have been reading Pomfret's "Choice" this spring,
A pretty kind of--sort of--kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
How Robin and His Outlaws Lived in The Woods
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
Robin and his merry men
: Lived just like the birds;
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts,
: And whistles and songs as words.
A Thought of the Nile
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.
Robin Hood, A Child.
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
It was the pleasant season yet,
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly, while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.
A Night-Rain in Summer
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
Open the window, and let the air
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
The Nile
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,--
Pastoral
© William Ernest Henley
It's the Spring.
Earth has conceived, and her bosom,
Teeming with summer, is glad.
Death Of Labour
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Methought a great wind swept across the earth,
And all the toilers perished. Then I saw
To J. M.
© George Meredith
Let Fate or Insufficiency provide
Mean ends for men who what they are would be:
Abou Ben Adhem
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Scenes In London II - Oxford Street
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
LIFE in its many shapes was there,
The busy and the gay;
Faces that seemed too young and fair
To ever know decay.
The Island of Skyros
© John Masefield
Here, where we stood together, we three men,
Before the war had swept us to the East
Three thousand miles away, I stand again
And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast.
The Monks of St. Mark
© Thomas Love Peacock
'Tis midnight: the sky is with clouds overcast;
The forest-trees bend in the loud-rushing blast;
The rain strongly beats on these time-hallow'd spires;
The lightning pours swiftly its blue-pointed fires;
Triumphant the tempest-fiend rides in the dark,
And howls round the old abbey-walls of St. Mark!
The Wanderer
© John Masefield
ALL day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmate's lips,
"The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."
The Everlasting Mercy
© John Masefield
Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer,
Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,
Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,
For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.
John Lydgate.
