Happy poems
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Drinking Alone
© Li Po
I take my wine jug out among the flowers
to drink alone, without friends.I raise my cup to entice the moon.
That, and my shadow, makes us three.But the moon doesn't drink,
and my shadow silently follows.I will travel with moon and shadow,
On the Death of Mr. William Hervey
© Abraham Cowley
IT was a dismal and a fearful night:
Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Light,
Alone And Drinking Under The Moon
© Li Po
Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
From Faust - I. Dedication
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Parting the vapor mist that round me plays!
My bosom finds its youthful strength again,
Feeling the magic breeze that marks your train.
The Weary Blues
© Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
February
© Thomas Chatterton
Now the rough goat withdraws his curling horns,
And the cold wat'rer twirls his circling mop:
Swift sudden anguish darts thro' alt'ring corns,
And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop.
Rover
© Henry Kendall
NO classic warrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages
No lordly-hearted man of men
My Muses thought engages.
Morning in the Burned House
© Margaret Atwood
In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.
On The Death Of Mistress Mary Prideaux
© William Strode
Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livde so long:
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th' estate of men?
On A Gentlewoman That Sung And Play'd Upon A Lute
© William Strode
Be silent you still musique of the Sphears,
And every sense make haste to be all ears,
And give devout attention to her aires,
To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers
Her Epitaph
© William Strode
Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine
That which makes thee a rich mine:
Remember yet, 'tis but a loane;
And wee must have it back, Her owne,
An Epitaph On Mr. Fishborne The Great London Benefactor, And His Executor
© William Strode
What are thy gaines, O death, if one man ly
Stretch'd in a bed of clay, whose charity
Doth hereby get occasion to redeeme
Thousands out of the grave: though cold hee seeme
Moonlight
© John Kenyon
Not alway from the lessons of the schools,
Taught evermore by those who trust them not,
A Strange Gentlewoman Passing By His Window
© William Strode
As I out of a casement sent
Mine eyes as wand'ring as my thought,
Upon no certayne object bent,
But only what occasion brought,
A Song On The Baths
© William Strode
What Angel stirrs this happy Well,
Some Muse from thence come shew't me,
One of those naked Graces tell
That Angels are for beauty:
Hymn 102
© Isaac Watts
No, I'll repine at death no more,
But with a cheerful gasp resign
To the cold dungeon of the grave
These dying, with'ring limbs of mine.
The Art Of War. Book I.
© Henry James Pye
I'll paint the cruel arm from Bayonne nam'd,
Where savage art a new destruction fram'd,
Their powers combin'd where fire and steel impart,
And point a double wound at every heart.
In Reference to Her Children
© Anne Bradstreet
I had eight birds hatched in one nest,
Four cocks there were, and hens the rest.
I nursed them up with pain and care,
Nor cost, nor labour did I spare,
