Happy poems
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The Wife Of Brittany
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
TRUTH wed to beauty in an antique tale,
Sweet-voiced like some immortal nightingale,
Trills the clear burden of her passsionate lay,
As fresh, as fair as wonderful to-day
As when the music of her balmy tongue
Ravished the first warm hearts for whom she sung.
The Child Of The Islands - Conclusion
© Caroline Norton
I.
MY lay is ended! closed the circling year,
From Spring's first dawn to Winter's darkling night;
The moan of sorrow, and the sigh of fear,
Character Of The Happy Warrior
© William Wordsworth
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
-It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
The Crowded Street
© William Cullen Bryant
Let me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
A Greyport Legend
© Francis Bret Harte
They ran through the streets of the seaport town,
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay;
From The Trenches
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
OH, to be in Canada now that Spring is merry,
Happy apple blossoms gay against the smiling green;
Here the lilac's purple plume and here the pink of cherry,
Hillsides just a drift of bloom with clover in between!
The Shell
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to me
Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea?
I press my ear, O little shell, against thy rosy lips;
Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships?
Margrave
© Robinson Jeffers
But who is our judge? It is likely the enormous
Beauty of the world requires for completion our ghostly increment,
It has to dream, and dream badly, a moment of its night.
Child's Talk In April
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I wish you were a pleasant wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
We'd rise and go to bed at eight
Or it may be not quite so late.
Chapter 9 - The Seven Selves
© Khalil Gibran
In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.
Bellambi's Maid
© Henry Kendall
Amongst the thunder-splintered caves
On Ocean's long and windy shore,
Circe
© Augusta Davies Webster
Ah me! these love a day and laugh again,
and loving, laughing, find a full content;
but I know nought of peace, and have not loved.
To L —
© Lord Alfred Douglas
In silent acres of forgetful flowers,
Crowned as of old with happy daffodils,
Long time my wounded soul has been a-straying,
Alas! it has chanced now on sombre hours
Of hard remembrances and sad delaying,
Leaving green valleys for the bitter hills
The Doldrums (A Still-Life Picture)
© Harry Kemp
The sails hang dead, or they lift and flap like a cornfield scarecrow's coat,
And the seabirds swim abreast of us like ducks that play, a-float,
And the sea is all an endless field that heaves and falls a-far
As if the earth were taking breath on some strange, alien star,
The Change
© John Newton
Saviour shine and cheer my soul,
Bid my dying hopes revive;
Make my wounded spirit whole,
Far away the tempter drive:
Speak the word and set me free,
Let me live alone to thee.
The Young Volunteer
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
With a knock upon the window comes the young volunteer,
'Tis his step upon the threshold; "what is it brings you here?"
To His Friend J. H.
© Alexander Brome
If thou canst fashion no excuse,
To stay at home, as 'tis thy use,
When I do send for thee,
Let neither sickness, way, nor rain,
With fond delusions thee detain,
But come thy way to me.
