Happy poems
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Gotham - Book I
© Charles Churchill
Far off (no matter whether east or west,
A real country, or one made in jest,
Night Rhapsody
© Robert Nichols
How beautiful it is to wake at night,
When over all there reigns the ultimate spell
Commanders Of The Faithful
© William Makepeace Thackeray
The Pope he is a happy man,
His Palace is the Vatican,
And there he sits and drains his can:
The Pope he is a happy man.
I often say when I'm at home,
I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.
Sonnet L.
© Charlotte Turner Smith
FROM THE NOVEL OF CELESTINA.
FAREWELL, ye lawns!--by fond remembrance blest,
As witnesses of gay unclouded hours;
Where, to maternal friendships' bosom prest,
A Kentish Garden
© Edith Nesbit
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
The Old Fool In The Wood
© Alfred Noyes
"If I could whisper you all I know,"
Said the Old Fool in the Wood,
The Truce And The Peace
© Robinson Jeffers
(NOVEMBER, 1918)
Peace now for every fury has had her day,
The Garden Of Epicurus
© George Meredith
That Garden of sedate Philosophy
Once flourished, fenced from passion and mishap,
The Borough. Letter XV: Inhabitants Of The Alms-House. Clelia
© George Crabbe
Another term is past; ten other years
In various trials, troubles, views, and fears:
Of these some pass'd in small attempts at trade;
Houses she kept for widowers lately made;
For now she said, "They'll miss th' endearing
The Past
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Loves sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Improvement
© Edgar Albert Guest
The joy of life is living it, or so it seems to me;
In finding shackles on your wrists, then struggling till you're free;
The Chaperon
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
I take my chaperon to the play--
She thinks she's taking me.
And the gilded youth who owns the box,
A proud young man is he;
Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Power. Book III.
© Matthew Prior
Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,
Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;
For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,
Since that must needs exist which can impart:
But how thou camest to be, or whence thy spring,
For various of thee priests and poets sing.
Asoka
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
Gentle as fine rain falling from the night,
The first beams from the Indian moon at full
Steal through the boughs, and brighter and more bright
A Pastoral Entertainment
© James Thomson
While in heroic numbers some relate
The amazing turns of wise eternal fate;
Exploits of heroes in the dusty field,
That to their name immortal honour yield;
Elegy On The Death Of Mr. Phillips
© Thomas Chatterton
No more I hail the morning's golden gleam,
No more the wonders of the view I sing;
Friendship requires a melancholy theme,
At her command the awful lyre I string!
Propertius's Bid For Immortality
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Let us return, then, for a time,
To our accustomed round of rhyme;
And let my songs' familiar art
Not fail to move my lady's heart.
