Happy poems
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6th April 1651 L'Amitie: To Mrs. M. Awbrey
© Katherine Philips
Soule of my soule! my Joy, my crown, my friend!
A name which all the rest doth comprehend;
How happy are we now, whose sols are grown,
By an incomparable mixture, One:
L'Amitie: To Mrs. M. Awbrey.
© Katherine Philips
Soule of my soule! my Joy, my crown, my friend!
A name which all the rest doth comprehend;
How happy are we now, whose sols are grown,
By an incomparable mixture, One:
In memory of that excellent person Mrs. Mary Lloyd of Bodidrist in Denbigh-shire
© Katherine Philips
I CANNOT hold, for though to write were rude,
Yet to be silent were Ingratitude,
And Folly too; for if Posterity
Should never hear of such a one as thee,
The World
© Katherine Philips
Wee falsely think it due unto our friends,
That we should grieve for their too early ends:
He that surveys the world with serious eys,
And stripps Her from her grosse and weak disguise,
A Retir'd Friendship
© Katherine Philips
Come, my Ardelia, to this bowre,
Where kindly mingling Souls a while,
Let's innocently spend an houre,
And at all serious follys smile
When Ida Puts Her Armor On
© Ellis Parker Butler
The Cowboy had a sterling heart,
The Maiden was from Boston,
The Rancher saw his wealth depart
The Steers were what he lost on.
The Indian Girl's Lament
© William Cullen Bryant
An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung:
O Wind that Blows Out of the West
© Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr
O wind that blows out of the West,
Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,
Sonnet XIII: Youth's Antiphony
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I love you, sweet: how can you ever learn
How much I love you? You I love even so,
A Study In Feeling
© Ellis Parker Butler
To be a great musician you must be a man of moods,
You have to be, to understand sonatas and etudes.
To execute pianos and to fiddle with success,
With sympathy and feeling you must fairly effervesce;
It was so with Paganini, Remenzi and Cho-pang,
And so it was with Peterkin Von Gabriel OLang.
Breathings Of Spring
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
The Happy Husband
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Oft, oft, methinks, the while with thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated bame, I hear
A promise and a mystery,
A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of wife!
On the Death of the Rev. Dr. Sewell
© Phillis Wheatley
Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number'd with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
To a Gentleman on His Voyage to Great-Britain
© Phillis Wheatley
While others chant of gay Elysian scenes,
Of balmy zephyrs, and of flow'ry plains,
My song more happy speaks a greater name,
Feels higher motives and a nobler flame.
A Farewel To America to Mrs. S. W.
© Phillis Wheatley
I.
ADIEU, New-England's smiling meads,
Adieu, the flow'ry plain:
I leave thine op'ning charms, O spring,
And tempt the roaring main.
To The Honourable T. H. Esq; On the Death Of His Daughter
© Phillis Wheatley
WHILE deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade
The hand of Death, and your dear daughter
laid
In dust, whose absence gives your tears to flow,
On The Death Of A Young Lady Of Five Years Of Age
© Phillis Wheatley
FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;
On the kind bosom of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
To The Right Honourable William, Earl Of Dartmouth, His Majesty's Principal Secretary Of The State For North-America,
© Phillis Wheatley
HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield
© Phillis Wheatley
HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
