Home poems
/ page 33 of 465 /
The Dance To Death. Act V
© Emma Lazarus
LIEBHAID.
The air hangs sultry as in mid-July.
Look forth, Claire; moves not some big thundercloud
Athwart the sky? My heart is sick.
'Mid the Piteous Heaps of Dead
© Katharine Tynan
'MID the piteous heaps of dead
Goes one weary golden head
Tossing ever to and fro,
Calling loud and calling low.
Reflections Of King Hezekiah, In His Sickness
© Hannah More
"Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die." - Isaiah xxxviii.
What! and no more? - Is this, my soul, said I,
The Bee's Winter Retreat
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Go, while the summer suns are bright,
Take at large thy wandering flight,
The Gold Star
© Edgar Albert Guest
The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming gold;
It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old,
But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see
And softly whispers: "Here lived one who died for liberty.
The Menu
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
I beg you come to-night and dine.
A welcome waits you, and sound wine-
The War Sonnets: V The Soldier
© Rupert Brooke
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Faith And Despondency
© Emily Jane Brontë
"The winter wind is loud and wild,
Come close to me, my darling child;
Forsake thy books, and mateless play;
And, while the night is gathering gray,
We'll talk its pensive hours away;-
Aurora Leigh: Book Fourth
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
She, at that,
Looked blindly in his face, as when one looks
Through driving autumn-rains to find the sky.
He went on speaking.
The Decision Of Fortune
© Anne Kingsmill Finch
Fortune well-Pictur'd on a rolling Globe,
With waving Locks, and thin transparent Robe,
On Reading The Controversy Between Lord Byron And Mr Bowles
© Barron Field
WHETHER a ship's poetic? - Bowles would own,
If here he dwelt, where Nature is prosaic,
Indiana
© James Whitcomb Riley
Our Land-- our Home-- the common home indeed
Of soil-born children and adopted ones--
The Ghost at the Second Bridge
© Henry Lawson
You'd call the man a senseless fool,
A blockhead or an ass,
The Pierrot Of The Minute
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
_A glade in the Parc due Petit Trianon. In the centre a Doric temple with
steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on a pedestal.
Twilight._
Old Dwarf Heart
© Anne Sexton
True. All too true. I have never been at home in
life. All my decay has taken place upon a child.
Henderson the Rain King, by Saul Bellow
An Old Colonists Reverie
© David McKee Wright
Dustily over the highway pipes the loud nor'-wester at morn,
Wind and the rising sun, and waving tussock and corn;
It brings to me days gone by when first in my ears it rang,
The wind is the voice of my home, and I think of the songs it sang
When, fresh from the desk and ledger, I crossed the long leagues of sea -
"The old worn world is gone and the new bright world is free."
The Ballad of the Elder Son
© Henry Lawson
A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Wollongong
© Henry Kendall
Let me talk of years evanished, let me harp upon the time
When we trod these sands together, in our boyhood's golden prime;
