Happy poems
/ page 209 of 254 /
On Beauty
© James Thomson
Beauty deserves the homage of the muse:
Shall mine, rebellious, the dear theme refuse?
No; while my breast respires the vital air,
Wholly I am devoted to the fair.
On The Death Of Rebecca
© George Moses Horton
Thou delicate blossom; thy short race is ended,
Thou sample of virtue and prize of the brave!
No more are thy beauties by mortals attended,
They now are but food for the worms and the grave.
The New Year
© John Greenleaf Whittier
THE wave is breaking on the shore,
The echo fading from the chime;
Again the shadow moveth o'er
The dial-plate of time!
The Happy Child
© William Henry Davies
I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick --
But not one like the child did pick.I heard the packhounds in green park --
But no dog like the child heard bark.I heard this day bird after bird --
But not one like the child has heard.A hundred butterflies saw I --
The Example
© William Henry Davies
Here's an example from
A Butterfly;
That on a rough, hard rock
Happy can lie;
Friendless and all alone
On this unsweetened stone.
The Child and the Mariner
© William Henry Davies
A dear old couple my grandparents were,
And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven
The lamb that Jesus petted when a child;
Their faith was never draped by Doubt: to them
Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Pleasure. Book II.
© Matthew Prior
My full design with vast expense achieved,
I came, beheld, admired, reflected, grieved:
I chid the folly of my thoughtless haste,
For, the work perfected, the joy was past.
Songs of Joy
© William Henry Davies
Sing out, my soul, thy songs of joy;
Sing as a happy bird will sing
Beneath a rainbow's lovely arch
In the spring.
To Dora
© William Wordsworth
"'A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on!'"
--What trick of memory to 'my' voice hath brought
This mournful iteration? For though Time,
A Plain Life
© William Henry Davies
No idle gold -- since this fine sun, my friend,
Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.No prescious stones -- since these green mornings show,
Without a charge, their pearls where'er I go.No lifeless books -- since birds with their sweet tongues
Will read aloud to me their happier songs.No painted scenes -- since clouds can change their skies
Cadmus and Harmonia
© Matthew Arnold
Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
Mycerinus
© Matthew Arnold
'Not by the justice that my father spurn'd,
Not for the thousands whom my father slew,
Altars unfed and temples overturn'd,
Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due;
Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie,
Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny.
The Strayed Reveller
© Matthew Arnold
1 Faster, faster,
2 O Circe, Goddess,
3 Let the wild, thronging train
4 The bright procession
5 Of eddying forms,
6 Sweep through my soul!
Strayed Reveller, The
© Matthew Arnold
Hist! Thou-within there!
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
Thyrsis, a Monody
© Matthew Arnold
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,
Christmas Gifts
© Carolyn Wells
Ten Christmas presents standing in a line;
Robert took the bicycle, then there were nine.
Memorial Verses
© Matthew Arnold
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
But one such death remain'd to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb--
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.
My Darling
© Adam Mickiewicz
When my sweetheart, in happy mood,
Sings, trills and chirrups like a bird,
I savour each sweet moment,
And dwell on each happy note.
I have no wish to interrupt;
I only want to listen, listen, listen.
Consolation
© Matthew Arnold
Mist clogs the sunshine.
Smoky dwarf houses
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
Weighs down my soul.
With Trumpet and Drum
© Eugene Field
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
