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To the Ottawa
© Archibald Lampman
Dear dark-brown waters full of all the stain
Of sombre spruce-woods and the forest fens,
Laden with sound from far-off northern glens
Where winds and craggy cataracts complain,
What I Call Living
© Edgar Albert Guest
The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
Hacking Home
© William Henry Ogilvie
When your homing carloads swing
Past us down the crisping lanes,
The Little Fauns To Proserpine
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
BROWNER than the hazel-husk, swifter than the wind,
Though you turn from heath and hill, we are hard behind,
Singing, "Ere the sorrows rise, ere the gates unclose
Bind above your wistful eyes the memory of a rose."
The Great Carbuncle
© Sylvia Plath
We came over the moor-top
Through air streaming and green-lit,
Stone farms foundering in it,
Valleys of grass altering
In a light neither dawn
Dog
© Harold Monro
You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.
Elegy X. To Fortune, Suggesting His Motive for Repining at Her Dispensations
© William Shenstone
Ask not the cause why this rebellious tongue
Loads with fresh curses thy detested sway!
Ask not, thus branded in my softest song,
Why stands the flatter'd name, which all obey!
Christmas Eve
© Mathilde Blind
But I-a waif on earth where'er I roam-
Uprooted with life's bleeding hopes and fears
From that one heart that was my heart's sole home,
Feel the old pang pierce through the severing years,
And as I think upon the years to come
That fair star trembles through my falling tears.
The Crab That Played with the Sea
© Rudyard Kipling
China-going P. & O.'s
Pass Pau Amma's playground close,
The Secret People
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet III
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I will break through my bondage. Let me be
Homeless once more, a wanderer on the Earth,
Marked with my soul's sole care for company,
Like Cain, lest I do murder on my hearth.
Caged
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
YOU think he sings a gladsome song!
Ah, well, he sings! but only see
How oft on glossy neck and breast
His bright head droops despondingly;
Or note the restless, eager bird
When a free minstrel's voice is heard.
Young Love
© Sara Teasdale
I cannot heed the words they say,
The lights grow far away and dim,
Amid the laughing men and maids
My eyes unbidden seek for him.
The Toad
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Then also was it that that child with the stone,
He who now tells this story, from his hands
Let the flag drop. A voice had cried to him
Too loud for denial: ``Fool. Be merciful.''
_Like His Mother Used To Make
© James Whitcomb Riley
"Uncle Jake's Place," St. Jo, Mo., 1874
"I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim,
The Ring And The Book - Chapter III - The Other Half-Rome
© Robert Browning
ANOTHER DAY that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
Italy : 19. Foscari
© Samuel Rogers
Let us lift up the curtain, and observe
What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh,
And now a groan is heard. Then all is still.
Twenty are sitting as in judgement there;
On The Death Of ---
© Richard Monckton Milnes
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
