Happy poems listing on Poemine.com [ page 67 of 254 ]

The Task : Complete

© William Cowper

In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.

I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning) A ballad of enormous length - Some parts of which will need explaining. 1 Because (unlike the bulk of men Who write for fame or public ends) I turn a lax and fluent pen To talking of my private friends. 2 For no one, in our long decline, So dusty, spiteful and divided, Had quite such pleasant friends as mine, Or loved them half as much as I did. [1 But do not think I shall explain To any great extent. Believe me, I partly write to give you pain, And if you do not like me, leave me.] [2 And least of all can you complain, Reviewers, whose unholy trade is, To puff with all your might and main Biographers of single ladies.] . . . The Freshman ambles down the High, In love with everything he sees, He notes the very Midland sky, He sniffs a more than Midland breeze. "Can this be Oxford? This the place (He cries) "of which my father said The tutoring was a damned disgrace, The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead? "Can it be here that Uncle Paul Was driven by excessive gloom, To drink and debt, and, last of all, To smoking opium in his room? "Is it from here the people come, Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes, And stammer? How extremely rum! How curious! What a great surprise! "Some influence of a nobler day Than theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul's) Has roused the sleep of their decay, And flecked with light their ancient walls. "O! dear undaunted boys of old, Would that your names were carven here, For all the world in stamps of gold, That I might read them and revere. "Who wrought and handed down for me This Oxford of the larger air, Laughing, and full of faith, and free, With youth resplendent everywhere?" Then learn: thou ill-instructed, blind, Young, callow, and untutored man, Their private names were . . .3 Their club was called REPUBLICAN. [3 Never mind.] . . . Where on their banks of light they lie, The happy hills of Heaven between, The Gods that rule the morning sky Are not more young, nor more serene Than were the intrepid Four that stand, The first who dared to live their dream. And on this uncongenial land To found the Abbey of Theleme. We kept the Rabelaisian plan: 4 We dignified the dainty cloisters With Natural Law, the Rights of Man, Song, Stoicism, Wine and Oysters. The library was most inviting: The books upon the crowded shelves Were mainly of our private writing: We kept a school and taught ourselves. We taught the art of writing things On men we still should like to throttle: And where to get the Blood of Kings At only half a crown a bottle. [4 The plan forgot (I know not how, Perhaps the Refectory filled it), To put a chapel in; and now We're mortgaging the rest to build it.] . . . Eheu Fugaces! Postume! (An old quotation out of mode); My coat of dreams is stolen away My youth is passing down the road. The wealth of youth, we spent it well And decently, as very few can. And is it lost? I cannot tell: And what is more, I doubt if you can. The question's very much too wide, And much too deep, and much too hollow, And learned men on either side Use arguments I cannot follow. They say that in the unchanging place, Where all we loved is always dear, We meet our morning face to face And find at last our twentieth year... They say (and I am glad they say) It is so ; and it may be so: It may be just the other way, I cannot tell. But this I know: From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends. . . . But something dwindles, oh! my peers, And something cheats the heart and passes, And Tom that meant to shake the years Has come to merely rattling glasses. And He, the Father of the Flock, Is keeping Burmesans in order, An exile on a lonely rock That overlooks the Chinese border. And One (Myself I mean no less), Ah! will Posterity believe it Not only don't deserve success, But hasn't managed to achieve it. Not even this peculiar town Has ever fixed a friendship firmer, But - one is married, one's gone down, And one's a Don, and one's in Burmah. . . . And oh ! the days, the days, the days, When all the four were off together: The infinite deep of summer haze, The roaring charge of autumn weather! . . . I will not try the reach again,
I will not set my sail alone, To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.

Paracelsus: Part I: Paracelsus Aspires

© Robert Browning

Scene.- Würzburg; a garden in the environs. 1512.
Festus, Paracelsus, Michal.

Spring In The Student's Quarter

© Henri Murger

Winter is passing, and the bells

For ever with their silver lay

Carmen Seculare. For the Year 1700. To The King

© Matthew Prior

Thy elder Look, Great Janus, cast

Into the long Records of Ages past:

Now Is Past

© John Clare

_Now_ is past--the happy _now_

When we together roved

A Dialogue At Fiesole

© Alfred Austin

HE.
Halt here awhile. That mossy-cushioned seat
Is for your queenliness a natural throne;
As I am fitly couched on this low sward,
Here at your feet.

All-Saints' Day (1868)

© Ada Cambridge

Never to weary more, nor suffer sorrow,-
Their strife all over, and their work all done:
At peace-and only waiting for the morrow;
Heaven's rest and rapture even now begun.

To His Worthy Friend Doctor Witty Upon His Translation Of T

© Andrew Marvell

Sit further, and make room for thine own fame,
Where just desert enrolles thy honour'd Name
The good Interpreter. Some in this task
Take of the Cypress vail, but leave a mask,

Love In Disguise

© Thomas Parnell

To stifle Passion is no easy Thing,

A Heart in Love is always on the Wing;

Sonnet LVI: As to the Roman

© Samuel Daniel

As to the Roman that would free his land,

His error was his honor and renown

To the Memory of a young Commander slain in a Battle with the Indians, 1724.

© Mather Byles

I.
While rosey Cheeks their Bloom confess,
And Youth thy Bosom warms,
Let Vertue, and let Knowledge dress,
Thy Mind in brighter Charms.

On Stephen Duck, the Thresher, and Favourite Poet. A Quibbl

The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q {-}{-}{-}{-}{-}{-} prevail,
The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl.
From threshing Corn, he turns to thresh his Brains;
For which Her M{-}{-}{-}{-}{-}{-}y allows him Grains.

A True Tale

© Mary Barber

Of Scripture--Heroes she would tell,
Whose Names they lisp'd, ere they could spell:
The Mother then, delighted, smiles;
And shews the Story on the Tiles.