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Our Master
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Immortal Love, forever full,
Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
A never-ebbing sea!
Apology For Bad Dreams
© Robinson Jeffers
I
In the purple light, heavy with redwood, the slopes drop seaward,
Magdalen
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
I
A SWORD, whose blade has ne'er been wet
With blood, except of freedom's foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
An Elegy address'd to His Excellency Governour BELCHER: On the Death of his Brother-in-Law, the
© Mather Byles
Pensive, o'ercome, the Muse hung down her Head,
And heard the fatal News,-"The Friend is dead.
'The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 5
© Publius Vergilius Maro
MEANTIME the Trojan cuts his watry way,
Fixd on his voyage, thro the curling sea;
The War After The War
© John Le Gay Brereton
What shall we say, who, drawing indolent breath,
Mark the quick pant of those who, full of hate,
Drive home the steel or loose the shrieking shell,
Heroes or Huns, who smite the grin of death
And laugh or curse beneath the blows of fate,
Swept madly to the thudding heart of hell?
The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story
© John Clare
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased,
As restless children from the school released,
Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,
That young ones' stories were preferred to old,
Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,
That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.
To The Fossil Flower
© Jones Very
Dark fossil flower! I see thy leaves unrolled,
With all thy lines of beauty freshly marked,
Nauhaught, The Deacon
© John Greenleaf Whittier
NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old
Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape
In War-Time A Psalm Of The Heart
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Scourge us as Thou wilt, oh Lord God of Hosts;
Deal with us, Lord, according to our transgressions;
But give us Victory!
Victory, victory! oh, Lord, victory!
Oh, Lord, victory! Lord, Lord, victory!
Stanzas To A Lady, On Leaving England
© George Gordon Byron
'Tis done -- and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
In France
© Francis Ledwidge
The silence of maternal hills
Is round me in my evening dreams ;
And round me music-making bills
And mingling waves of pastoral streams.
