Poems begining by H
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How We Beat The Favourite
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup
"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;
The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter
Than ever - he swears he can win all the way.
Hoar-Frost
© Madison Julius Cawein
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,
Year after year, about the forest tossed,
How The Fatuous Wish Of A Peasant Came True
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
This Moral by the tale is taught:--
The wish is father to the thought.
(We'd oftentimes escape the worst
If but the thinking part came first!)
Hurry by Marie Howe : American Life in Poetry #218 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Here is one of my favorite mother-daughter poems, by Marie Howe, who lives in New York City and who has a charming little girl.
Hurry
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
Heroes
© John Jay Chapman
I SEE them hasting toward the light
Where war's dim watchfires glow;
The stars that burn in Europe's night
Conduct them to the foe.
Hail Queen of Saints; Hail mercies Mother
© John Austin
Hail Queen of Saints; Hail mercies Mother
Our life, our hope, our comfort, Hail:
Hymn IV. Dear Jesu, when, when will it be,
© John Austin
Dear Jesu, when, when will it be,
That I no more shall break with Thee!
He Loves And He Rides Away
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
'Twas in that island summer where
They spin the morning gossamer,
Hounds!
© William Henry Ogilvie
There is music on disc and on wireless,
Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless,
Highway
© Faiz Ahmed Faiz
A despondent highway is stretched,
its eyes set on the far horizon
On the cold dirt of its bosom,
its grayish beauty spread
Hesiod: Or, The Rise Of Woman
© Thomas Parnell
Gold-scepter'd Juno next exalts the Fair;
Her Touch endows her with imperious Air,
Self-valuing Fancy, highly-crested Pride,
Strong sov'reign Will, and some Desire to chide:
For which, an Eloquence, that aims to vex,
With native Tropes of Anger, arms the Sex.
Her Portrait
© Madison Julius Cawein
Were I an artist, Lydia, I
Would paint you as you merit,
Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;
Not in the flesh, but spirit.
Harvest Hymn
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Now autumn strews on every plain,
His mellow fruits and fertile grain;
Hermana, Hazme Llorar...
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
Fuensanta:
Dame todas las lágrimas del mar.
Mis ojos están secos y yo sufro
Unas inmensas ganas de llorar.
Herenowour age of socialism!...
© Boris Pasternak
Herenowour age of socialism!
Here in the thick of life below.
Today in the name of things to be
Into the future forth we go.
Hymn
© Sir Henry Newbolt
O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands
Despair and victory give;
In whom, though tyrants tread their lands,
The souls of nations live;
Harry Morant
© William Henry Ogilvie
Harry Morant was a friend I had
In the years long passed away,
A chivalrous, wild and reckless lad,
A knight born out of his day.
Her Eyes Are Wild
© William Wordsworth
I
HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
Honour
© Ada Cambridge
But let me fall not in mine own esteem,
By poor deceit or selfish greed debased.
Let me be clean from secret stain and shame,
Know myself true, though false as hell I seem -
Know myself worthy, howsoe'er disgraced -
Know myself right, though every tongue should blame.
