Home poems
/ page 154 of 465 /
Forms Of Prayer To Be Used At Sea
© John Keble
The shower of moonlight falls as still and clear
Upon this desert main
Fragments
© Robert Louis Stevenson
Or rather to behold her when
She plies for me the unresting pen,
And when the loud assault of squalls
Resounds upon the roof and walls,
And the low thunder growls and I
Raise my dictating voice on high.
The Way of Wooing
© William Schwenck Gilbert
A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a Prince's bride,
Three Songs Of The Enigma
© Robert Nichols
The hopeless rain, a sigh, a shadow
Falters and drifts again, again over the meadow,
It wanders lost, drifts hither . . . thither,
It blows, it goes, it knows not whither.
In The Days Of Crinoline
© Thomas Hardy
A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
- Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
'Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
So I can hoe at ease.'
Wishes
© Sara Teasdale
I wish for such a lot of things
That never will come true
And yet I want them all so much
I think they might, don't you?
Hyperion
© Stefan Anton George
I journeyed home: such flood of blossoms never
Had welcomed me… a throbbing in the field
I Call That True Love
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
You gotta wake up every mornin', tip toe in the
kitchen cook me great T-bone steak
Serve it to me in bed go down the street and hustle
bring me back all the money you make
The Triumph of Dead : Chap. 2
© Mary Sidney Herbert
That night, which did the dreadful hap ensue
That quite eclips'd, nay, rather did replace
Apology
© William Carlos Williams
The beauty of
the terrible faces
of our nonentites
stirs me to it:
The Burial in the Snow
© Julia A Moore
The people of that party
Lay scattered all around,
Some were frightened, others laughed,
To think it happened so,
That the end of their sleigh ride
Was a burial in the snow.
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire
© George Gordon Byron
These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow;
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot,
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott.
It's Only a Way He's Got (As sung by the camp fire)
© Anonymous
No doubt the saying's all abroad,
And rattling through the land.
We hear it at the mangle, too,
With "What are you going to stand?"
Additions: The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's
© Thomas Hardy
She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.
The Old Soldier
© Katharine Tynan
Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven,
God bids the old soldier they all adored
Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven,
A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord.
In The Cup
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
Shakuntala Act 1
© Kalidasa
King Dushyant in a chariot, pursuing an antelope, with a bow and quiver, attended by his Charioteer.
Suta (Charioteer). [Looking at the antelope, and then at the king]
When I cast my eye on that black antelope, and on thee, O king, with thy braced bow, I see before me, as it were, the God Mahésa chasing a hart (male deer), with his bow, named Pináca, braced in his left hand.
