Happy poems
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The Farmer's Boy - Autumn
© Robert Bloomfield
Again, the year's _decline_, midst storms and floods,
The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods,
Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell
Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell,
By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn
The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn.
And So I've Found My Native Country...
© Attila Jozsef
And so I've found my native country,
that soil the gravedigger will frame,
where they who write the words above me
do not for once misspell my name.
Trilogy Of Passion 02 Elegy
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now
In the still-closed blossoms of this day?
Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;
What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play
No longer doubt! Descending from the sky,
She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
Over And Done
© Edith Nesbit
WE might have held back from Love's draught divine
For many a wistful sad-and-happy day,
Old Mates
© David McKee Wright
. I came up to-night to the station, the tramp had been longish and cold,
My swag ain't too heavy to carry, but then I begin to get old.
I came through this way to the diggings - how long will that be ago now?
Thirty years! how the country has altered, and miles of it under the plough,
And Jack was my mate on the journey - we both run away from the sea;
He's got on in the world and I haven't, and now he looks sideways on me.
Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh
© Ovid
The End of the Seventh Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
In Utroque Fidelis
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
ALONG the woods the whispering night-airs swoon,
A single bird-note dies adown the trees,
Clear, pallid, mournful, droops the summer moon,
Dipped in the foam of cloudland's phantom seas;--
Soundless they heave above
The dim, ancestral home that holds my love.
Travel Prayer
© Margaret Widdemer
ALL along the way
As through the night we go,
I see the little houses
In lighted row on row
Gloucester Moors
© William Vaughn Moody
A mile behind is Gloucester town
Where the flishing fleets put in,
The Hill Of San Sebastian
© William Henry Drummond
Good job I was cryin' quiet den, an' Louis
can't hear at all
But I kiss de poor feller an' laugh, an' never
say not'ing-me.
Louis XVII (King Louis XVII)
© Victor Marie Hugo
On entendit des voix qui disaient dans la nue :
" Jeune ange, Dieu sourit à ta gloire ingénue;
Viens, rentre dans ses bras pour ne plus en sortir;
Et vous, qui du Très-Haut racontez les louanges,
Séraphins, prophètes, archanges,
Courbez-vous, c'est un Roi; chantez, c'est un Martyr! "
Compensation
© Celia Thaxter
In that new world toward which our feet are set,
Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget
The Second Monarchy, being the Persian, began underCyrus, Darius being his Uncle and Father-in-la
© Anne Bradstreet
Cyrus Cambyses Son of Persia King,
Whom Lady Mandana did to him bring,
Tale XI
© George Crabbe
creed;
And those of stronger minds should never speak
(In his opinion) what might hurt the weak:
A man may smile, but still he should attend
His hour at church, and be the Church's friend,
What there he thinks conceal, and what he hears
Unknown
© Edward Thomas
She is most fair,
And when they see her pass
The poets' ladies
Look no more in the glass
But after her.
The Talking Oak
© Alfred Tennyson
Once more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.
The Four Seasons : Winter
© James Thomson
See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
Dora
© Charles Harpur
Im happy now in thinking how happy I was then,
When towards the glowing west my love went homeward down the glen;
Went homeward down the glen, while my comfort surer grew,
Till methought the old-faced hills at looked as they were happy too.
Prologue To Tancred And Sigismunda
© James Thomson
Bold is the man! who, in this nicer age,
Presumes to tread the chaste corrected stage.
Now, with gay tinsel arts, we can no more
Conceal the want of Nature's sterling ore.
The Triumphs Of Philamore And Amoret. To The Noblest Of Our
© Richard Lovelace
Sir, your sad absence I complain, as earth
Her long-hid spring, that gave her verdures birth,
Who now her cheerful aromatick head
Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd bed;
Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move
Below, and to th' antipodes make love.
