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In The Public Library
© Lesbia Harford
Standing on tiptoe, head back, eyes and arm
Upraised, Kate groped to reach the higher shelf.
Her sleeve slid up like darkness in alarm
At gleam of dawn. Impatient with herself
Yeh dhuwan sa (with English translation)
© Meer Taqi Meer
O! Meer, Love is a massive rock.
Can a weak man fight the load that arose?
Love-Trilogy
© Mathilde Blind
I.
SHE stood against the Orient sun,
Her face inscrutable for light;
A myriad larks in unison
Sang o'er her, soaring out of sight.
Naples And Venice
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Thou, who to that lofty terrace, lov'st on summer--eve to go,
Tell me, Poet! what Thou seest,--what Thou hearest, there below!
Home Delights
© Charles Lamb
To operas and balls my cousins take me,
And fond of plays my new-made friend would make me.
From Faust - V. Margaret At Her Spinning-Wheel
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
When gone is he,
The grave I see;
The world's wide all
Is turned to gall.
Sir Hornbook
© Thomas Love Peacock
O'er bush and briar Childe Launcelot sprung
With ardent hopes elate,
And loudly blew the horn that hung
Before Sir Hornbook's gate.
Jesus Calls Us
© Cecil Frances Alexander
Jesus calls us; o'er the tumult
of our life's wild, restless sea,
day by day his clear voice soundeth,
saying, "Christian, follow me;"
A Dream Of England
© Alfred Austin
I had a dream of England. Wild and weird,
The billows ravened round her, and the wrack,
Moore
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
He sings the heroic tales of old
When Ireland yet was free,
Of many a fight and foray bold,
And raid beyond the sea.
January
© Hilaire Belloc
The undefeated enemy, the chill
That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,
Is master of our moment, and has bound
The viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.
It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.
It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.
The Wrongs Of Africa: Part The Second
© William Roscoe
FAIR is this fertile spot, which God assign'd
As man's terrestrial home; where every charm
The Bell-Founder Part I - Labour And Hope
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the
splendour of dreams,
Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams,
'Neath those hills whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages
Doom Of Exiles
© Sylvia Plath
Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
Erected down the gangways of our mind.
Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth
© George Gordon Byron
I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
