Happy poems
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"Welcome, Dear Heart, and a Most Kind Good-Morrow"
© Thomas Hood
Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow;
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:
Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.
The Ages Of Man
© Henry Howard
Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were,
I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear,
The Plea of the Simla Dancers
© Rudyard Kipling
Too late, alas! the song
To remedy the wrong; --
The rooms are taken from us, swept and
garnished for their fate.
Out Of The Sighs
© Dylan Thomas
Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew,
The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,
Groping for matter under the dog's plate,
Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer:
Crumbs, barn, and halter.
One Viceroy Resigns
© Rudyard Kipling
So here's your Empire. No more wine, then?
Good.
We'll clear the Aides and khitmatgars away.
(You'll know that fat old fellow with the knife --
The Vision Of The Maid Of Orleans - The First Book
© Robert Southey
The plumeless bat with short shrill note flits by,
And the night-raven's scream came fitfully,
Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid
Look'd to the shore, and now upon the bank
Leaps, joyful to escape, yet trembling still
In recollection.
An Old Song
© Rudyard Kipling
So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
The hard-held ponies swing,
The Barefooted Friar
© Sir Walter Scott
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
The Cellar Door
© John Clare
By the old tavern door on the causey there lay
A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,
The Port Phillip Patriot
© Anonymous
Oh, what a wretched, loathsome, thing am I,
Too horrible for earth, or the pure heaven,
Songs of the Night Watches (complete)
© Jean Ingelow
Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot;
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O!
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest
lass;
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!”
A Poem On The Last Day - Book III
© Edward Young
Each gesture mourns, each look is black with care,
And every groan is loaden with despair.
Reader, if guilty, spare the Muse, and find
A truer image pictured in thy mind.
The Letter L
© Jean Ingelow
We sat on grassy slopes that meet
With sudden dip the level strand;
The trees hung overhead—our feet
Were on the sand.
The Lady of the Lake: Canto IV. - The Prophecy
© Sir Walter Scott
Ellen.
'Well, be it as thou wilt;
I hear, But cannot stop the bursting tear.'
The Minstrel tried his simple art,
Rut distant far was Ellen's heart.
Harpalus. An Ancient English Pastoral
© Henry Howard
Phylida was a faire mayde,
As fresh as any flowre;
Whom Harpalus the herdman prayde
To be his paramour.
Banquet Night
© Rudyard Kipling
"ONCE in so often," King Solomon said,
Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,
"We will curb our garlic and wine and bread
And banquet together beneath my Throne,
And all Brethren shall come to that mess
As Fellow-Craftsmen-no more and no less."
Ireland
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing;
They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing:
They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,
And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!
