Health poems

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Queen Marys Letter To Bothwell

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Pitiful gods! Have pity on my passion.
Teach me the road how I a certain proving
Shall make to him I love of my great loving,
My faith unchanged, nor plead it in fool's fashion.

On Leaving Italy, For The Summer, On Account Of Health

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Thou summer--land! that dost put on the sun
Not as a dress of pomp occasional,
But as thy natural and most fitting one,--
Yet still thy Beauty has its festival,

Wash Lowry's Reminiscence

© James Whitcomb Riley

And you're the poet of this concern?

I've seed your name in print

Modern Greece

© Richard Monckton Milnes

As, in the legend which our childhood loved,
The destined prince was guided to the bed,
Where, many a silent year, the charmèd Maid
Lay still, as though she were not; nor could wake,

And whatsoeuer other flowre of worth,
And whatso other hearb of louely hew
The iouyous Spring out of the ground brings forth,
To cloath her selfe in colours fresh and new;
He planted there, and reard a mount of earth,
In whose high front was writ as doth ensue.

Give Your Heart To The Hawks

© Robinson Jeffers

I

The apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

An Irregular Ode, After Sickness

© William Shenstone

-Melius, bunny venerit ipsa, canemus.-Virg.
Imitation.
His wish'd-for presence will improve the song.

The Road to Avernus Scene VII: Two Exhortations

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

Surely, in the great beginning God made all things good, and still
That soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will.
Nay, our wisest have asserted that, as shade enhances light,
Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right.

The Victories Of Love. Book II

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore

II
From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill

The Creek of the Four Graves [Early Version]

© Charles Harpur

And feeling thus by habit, that poor man
Though the black shadow of untimely death
Hopelessly thickened under every stroke,
Upstruggled desperate, until at last,
One, as in mercy, gave him to the dust,
With all his sorrows.

Questions

© Edgar Albert Guest

Would you sell your boy for a stack of gold?

Would you miss that hand that is yours to hold?

Will

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

YOUR face, my boy, when six months old,
We propped you laughing in a chair,
And the sun-artist caught the gold
Which rippled o'er your waving hair!

A Psalm Of Patience

O kid! with face of healthy tan,

With lunch-bag, books and slate;

The Farmer's Boy - Spring

Down, indignation! hence, ideas foul!
Away the shocking image from my soul!
Let kindlier visitants attend my way,
Beneath approaching _Summer's_ fervid ray;
Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy,
Whilst the sweet theme is _universal joy_.

As By Fire

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning
For spiritual perfection here below,
This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning,
Seems my determined foe,