Great poems

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The Visions Of Petrarch

© Edmund Spenser

Being one day at my window all alone,

So manie strange things happened me to see,

The Woodmans Daughter

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore

In Gerald's Cottage by the hill,

Old Gerald and his child,

The Sycophantic Fox And The Gullible Raven

© Guy Wetmore Carryl

A raven sat upon a tree,
And not a word he spoke, for
His beak contained a piece of Brie.
Or, maybe it was Roquefort.
We'll make it any kind you please -
At all events it was a cheese.

Art Maxims

© William Watson

Often ornateness
Goes with greatness;
Oftener felicity
Comes of simplicity.

The Roman Rose-Seller

© Isabella Valancy Crawford

Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see

My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries

Dies Irae.

© Robert Crawford

The last great Day it may be near,
Or Man may pass ere it comes here.
There may be nothing but weeds and flowers
Over the Earth in her dying hours;

Ascension

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I have been down in the darkest water-

Deep, deep down where no light could pierce;

Mr. Barney Maguire's Account Of The Coronation

© Richard Harris Barham

Och! the Coronation! what celebration

For emulation can with it compare?

The Dunciad: Book I.

© Alexander Pope

The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings

The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,

To An Absentee

© Thomas Hood

O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.

An heroic address to [Oxford], concerning the combined utility and dignity of military affairs and o

In thy breast is noble blood, Courage animates thy brow, Mars lives in thy tongue,
Minerva strengthen thy right hand, Bellona reigns in thy body, within thee burns the fire of Mars.
Thine eyes flash fire, thy countenance shakes a spear;
who would not swear that Achilles had come to life again?

Morning in Camp

© Herbert Bashford

A BED of ashes and a half-burned brand

Now mark the spot where last nights campfire sprung

Griggsby's Station

© James Whitcomb Riley

Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation;
But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

To Philip Bourke Marston, Inciting Me To Poetic Work

SWEET Poet, thou of whom these years that roll

Must one day yet the burdened birthright learn,

What Would It Be?

Now what were the words of Jesus,

And what would He pause and say,

The Sixth Olympic Ode Of Pindar

A sudden thought I raptur'd feel,
Which, as the whetstone points the steel,
Brightens my sense, and bids me warbling raise
To the soft-breathing flute, the kindred notes of praise.

Poetry

Grey with all honours of age! but fresh-featured and ruddy
As dawn when the drowsy farm-yard has thrice heard Chaunticlere.
Tender to tearfulness-childlike, and manly, and motherly;
Here beats true English blood richest joyance on sweet English ground.