Happy poems
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To Sir Henry Cary
© Benjamin Jonson
That neither fame nor love might wanting be
To greatness, Cary, I sing that and thee;
Poems - Written On The Deaths Of Three Lovely Children
© Jean Ingelow
Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter-woodland hollows thickly strewing,
Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win,
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing
All without and all within!
To Giusue Carducci
© George William Lewis Marshall-Hall
O RICH and splendid soul that overflowest
With light and fire caught from thy native skies!
An Essay on Man: Epistle I
© Alexander Pope
To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
The Habitants Summer
© William Henry Drummond
O, who can blame de winter, never min'
de hard he 's blowin'
The Sweetness of Life
© Archibald Lampman
It fell on a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
Vernal Ode
© William Wordsworth
I
BENEATH the concave of an April sky,
When all the fields with freshest green were dight,
Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye
The Net Of Memory
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
I cast the Net of Memory,
Man's torment and delight,
Over the level Sands of Youth
That lay serenely bright,
Their tranquil gold at times submerged
In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight.
Eclogue 5: Menalcas Mopsus
© Publius Vergilius Maro
MENALCAS
Why, Mopsus, being both together met,
You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,
I to sing ditties, do we not sit down
Here where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?
Medea in Athens
© Augusta Davies Webster
Dimly I recall
some prophecy a god breathed by my mouth.
It could not err. What was it? For I think;-
it told his death¹.
Decline and Fall
© Daniel Nester
Cornice rose in ranges, rose so high
It saw no sky, that forum, but noon sky.
Marble shone like shallows; columns too
Streamed with cool light as rocks in breakers do.
Strange
© Edgar Albert Guest
He thought that he'd be happy if a fortune he could make,
If he were rich he thought that he'd be gay,
He often thought it would be nice an ocean trip to take
Whenever he desired to go away.
The Cottager
© John Clare
True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
He plods about his toils and reads the news,
Sonnet LVII: Being your slave, what should I do but tend
© William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 116
© Alfred Tennyson
Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
To Margaret W------
© Charles Lamb
Margaret, in happy hour
Christen'd from that humble flower
Which we a daisy call!
May thy pretty name-sake be
In all things a type of thee,
And image thee in all.
