Poems begining by H
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Horace, Book I. Ode IX.
© William Cowper
This be our part -- let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
Hack and Hew
© Bliss William Carman
Hack ad Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now:
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.
Hymn XXVI: I Thirst, Thou Wounded Lamb of God
© Charles Wesley
I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God,
To wash me in thy cleansing blood,
To dwell within thy wounds; then pain
Is sweet, and life or death is gain.
Hail! Master Death!
© Edgar Lee Masters
When conquerors lift the bloody shield,
Showing the fallen's ooze of life,
And on a waste of blasted field
Joy quickens to the drum and fife,
His Rattle He Throws On The Floor
© Edgar Albert Guest
When something or other has made him feel glad,
His rattle he throws on the floor;
Home
© Emily Dickinson
Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Her Last Letter: Being a Reply to 'His Answer'
© Francis Bret Harte
June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Hymn 139
© Isaac Watts
How oft have sin and Satan strove
To rend my soul from thee, my God!
But everlasting is thy love,
And Jesus seals it with his blood.
Hans Huckebein (The Unlucky Raven) Prologue
© Wilhelm Busch
Sosehr sein Ende mich bewegt,
Ich durft' es anders nicht vermelden. -
Er stirbt - denn tragisch angelegt
War der Charakter dieses Helden.
Hope
© Mathilde Blind
But tired of these he craved a wider scope:
Then fair as Pallas from the brain of Jove
From his deep wish there sprang, full-armed, to cope
With all life's ills, even very death in love,
The only thing man never wearies of-
His own creation-visionary Hope.
How Do You Tackle Your Work
© Franklin Pierce Adams
How do you tackle your work each day?
Are you scared of the job you find?
hastee apnee Hubaab kee see hai (With English Translation)
© Meer Taqi Meer
hastee apnee Hubaab kee see hai
ye numa'ish suraab kee see hai
Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!"
Hidden Love
© Sara Teasdale
I hid the love within my heart,
And lit the laughter in my eyes,
That when we meet he may not know
My love that never dies.
Hesperus The Bringer
© Sappho
O Hesperus, thou bringest all good things--
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
Hymns to the Night : 4
© Novalis
Now I know when will come the last morning - when the Light no more scares away Night and Love - when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night - truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles - tabernacles of peace, there longs and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring - afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise
© William Wordsworth
HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
Hon. James B. Clay
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
DIED JANUARY 26th, 1864, THE HON. JAMES B. CLAY, OF ASHLANDS, KENTUCKY, ELDEST SON OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS HENRY CLAY.
Another pang for Southern hearts,
