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A Vision out West
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest,And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the westThe tiny fieldmice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and humAmong the hollows and the crests of this wide ocean stricken dumb,Whose rollers move for ever on, though sullenly, with fettered wills,To break in voiceless wrath upon the crumbled bases of far hills,Where rugged outposts meet the shock, stand fast, and hurl them back again,An avalanche of earth and rock, in tumbled fragments on the plain;But, never heeding the rebuff, to right and left they kiss the feetOf hanging cliff and bouldered bluff till on the farther side they meet,And once again resume their march to where the afternoon sun dipsToward the west, and Heaven's arch salutes the Earth with ruddy lips
Kelly's Conversion
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Kelly the Rager half opened an eyeTo wink at the Army passing by,While his hot breath, thick with the taint of beer,Came forth from his lips in a drunken jeer
The Mullein Meadow
© Jean Blewett
Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs,The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,
The Mother's Lecture
© Jean Blewett
There's nothing, did you say, Reuben? There's nothing, nothing at all,There's nothing to thank the Lord for This disappointing fall.
The Grave
© Jean Blewett
O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day,Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway.
Brazil, January 1, 1502
© Elizabeth Bishop
Januaries, nature greets our eyesexactly as she must have greeted theirs:every square inch filling in with foliage--big leaves, little leaves, and giant leaves,blue, blue-green, and olive,with occasional lighter veins and edges,or a satin underleaf turned over;monster fernsin silver-gray relief,and flowers, too, like giant water liliesup in the air--up, rather, in the leaves--purple, yellow, two yellows, pink,rust red and greenish white;solid but airy; fresh as if just finishedand taken off the frame
For the Fallen
© Binyon Heward Laurence
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,England mourns for her dead across the sea.Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,Fallen in the cause of the free.
Indoor Games near Newbury
© John Betjeman
In among the silver birches winding ways of tarmac wander And the signs to Bussock Bottom, Tussock Wood and Windy Brake,Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches, catch the lights of our Lagonda As we drive to Wendy's party, lemon curd and Christmas cake
The Sparrow
© Benson Arthur Christopher
O pertest, most self-satisfied Of aught that breathes or moves,See where you sit, with head aside, To chirp your vulgar loves:Or raking in the uncleanly street You bolt your ugly meal,Undaunted by the approaching feet, The heedless splashing wheel
The Minstrel; or, The Progress of Genius
© James Beattie
THE FIRST BOOK (excerpts) The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Hath felt the influence of malignant star, And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war! Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote hath pin'd aloneThen dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
And yet, the languor of inglorious days Not equally oppressive is to all
On Day and Night
© Arthur James
And as the neighbors' guests retire, coaxing their carsinto the snow (we're gazing through the curtaininto winter's pale hub) two girls gaze up
Distracted by an Ergonomic Bicycle
© Arthur James
On a rainy morning in the worst yearof my life, as icy eyelets shelled the street,I shared a tremor with a Dobermanleashed to a post. We two were all the worlduntil a bicyclist shot by, riding
The Seafarer
© Anonymous
Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan, [I can utter a true tale about myself,]siþas secgan, hu ic geswincdagum [tell of my travels, how in laboursome days]earfoðhwile oft þrowade, [a time of hardship I often suffered,]bitre breostceare gebiden hæbbe, [how bitter sorrow in my breast I have borne,]gecunnad in ceole cearselda fela, [made trial on shipboard of many sorrowful abodes; ]atol yþa gewealc, þær mec oft bigeat [dread was the rolling of the waves; there my task was often]nearo nihtwaco æt nacan stefnan, [the hard night-watch at the boat's prow,]þonne he be clifum cnossað
The Red River Valley
© Anonymous
From this valley they say you are going,We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile,For they say you are taking the sunshineThat brightens our pathway awhile.
The Leather Bottel
© Anonymous
Now God alone that made all things,Heaven and earth and all that's in,The ships that in the seas do swimTo keep out foes from coming in,Then every one does what he can,All for the good and use of man: And I wish in Heaven his soul may dwell That first devis'd the leather bottel
A Jest of Robin Hood
© Anonymous
Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen, All that nowe be here;Of Litell Johnn, that was the knigh{.e}es man, Goode myrth ye shall here.
I Don't Want to Die
© Anonymous
I WANT to go home,I want to go home,I don't want to go in the trenches no more,Where whizz-bangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar
