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The Woman Who Went To Hell [An Irish Legend]

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

Young Dermod stood by his mother's side,
And he spake right stern and cold;
Now, why do you weep and wail," he said,
And joy from my bride withhold ?

England

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Shall we but turn from braggart pride
Our race to cheapen and defame?
Before the world to wail, to chide,
And weakness as with vaunting claim?

To The River Arve

© William Cullen Bryant

Not from the sands or cloven rocks,

Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;

Poetry

© Boris Pasternak

Yes, I shall swear by you, my verse,
I shall wheeze out, before I swoon:
You're not a tenor's shape and voice,
You're summer travelling third class,
You are a suburb, not a tune.

In the land of the living are kingdoms twain,
Kingdoms twain,--nay, kingdoms three;
One is of sunshine and one of rain,
And one of the moonlight without a stain.
The moonlight people, of these are we,
The ever--happy, the Sidhe, the Sidhe.

To Santa Claus

© James Whitcomb Riley

Most tangible of all the gods that be,
O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy!
As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then,
Take us as children to thy heart again.

Ah! Where Are Hours Departed Fled? (excerpt)

© Walther von der Vogelweide

Ah! where are hours departed fled?

Is life a dream, or true indeed?

Natural Magic.

© Robert Crawford

I have put by the schoolmen,
The seeming great and sage;
Nor will I taste the vintage
Brewed in the vats of Age;

The Fire

© Edith Nesbit

I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,

And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.

The Sleepless Jesus

© George MacDonald

'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:

Why gaze thy bright eyes so?

So Long, Chinook!

© Henry Herbert Knibbs

Chinook, you're free: there's plenty pasture there:
Your gallant years have earned you more ... and
yet ..
Go on and graze! Don't stand like that and stare!
Now quit your nosing! No, I'll not forget.

Accolon Of Gaul: Part IV

Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,

In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,

The Child's Grave

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
That I sang for delight as I followed the way.

The Stockman

© Anonymous

A bright sun and a loosened rein,

A whip whose pealing sound

The Great Chance

NOW strikes the hour upon the clock
The black sheep may rebuild the years
May lift the father's pride he broke
And wipe away his mother's tears.

I.

Here is the skull of a man: a mans thoughts and emotions

Woman

LADY, although we have not met,
And may not meet, beneath the sky;
And whether thine are eyes of jet,
Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
Or hazelheaven knows, not I;