Hope poems

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439

To the Spirit of the West

© Susan Frances Harrison

God of the rivers and lakes,Maker of manifold blooms,Dweller in woodland brakes,Weaver of violet glooms,

Here on the wide waste lands,Take--child--these trembling hands,Though my life be as blank and waste,My days as sorely ungracedBy glimmer of green on the rimOf a sunless wilderness dim,As the wet fields barren and brown,As the fork of each sterile limbShorn of its lustrous crown

Strictly Germ-Proof

© Guiterman Arthur

The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic PupWere playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up;They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised; -It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized

Rags and Robes

© Whitney Adeline Dutton Train

"Hark, hark! The dogs do bark;Beggars are coming to town: Some in rags, Some in tags,And some in velvet gowns!"

The Great Tyrannosaurus

© Guiterman Arthur

The Great Tyrannosaurus Lived centuries ago;Through marshes wet and porous He rambled to and fro.

Going to Dover

© Whitney Adeline Dutton Train

"Leg over leg As the dog went to Dover;When he came to a stile, Jump he went over."

Caelica: Sonnet 22

© Fulke Greville

I, with whose colours Myra dress'd her head, I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,I, that mine own name in the chimneys read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play?

I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,Which I to wear about mine arm was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?

I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was named: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked?

I, that, when drowsy Argus fell asleep, Like jealousy o'erwatched with desire,Was even warned modesty to keep, While her breath, speaking, kindled Nature's fire: Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?

Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties white?Yet would she never write her love to me

The Years

© Greene Richard

For Cyril Pine

At the College

© Greene Richard

Serpentine, the path unwinds its innocencefrom building to building in flickering shadewhere my students feed lazy raccoons muffins

The Flying Fish

© Gray John Henry

Magnae Deus potentiaequi fertili natos aquapartim relinquis gurgitipartim levas in aera.

On Himself, upon Hearing What was his Sentence

© James Graham

Let them bestow on ev'ry airth a limb;Open all my veins, that I may swimTo Thee, my Saviour, in that crimson lake;Then place my parboil'd head upon a stake,Scatter my ashes, throw them in the air:Lord (since Thou know'st where all these atoms are)I'm hopeful once Thou'lt recollect my dust,And confident thou'lt raise me with the just

Confessio Amantis, Book III: The Tale of Apollonius of Tyre

© John Gower

Appolinus his leve tok,To God and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod

Ordinary, Moving

© Gotlieb Phyllis

is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out

the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song

this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever

Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba

The Deserted Village, A Poem

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

The Rising Village

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

The Housewife

Here is the House to hold me -- cradle of all the race;Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear --Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;Duty older than Adam -- Duty that sawAcceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw

To a Nurse

© William Gay

As dropping moisture on December flowers, As sunlight breaking o'er the August plain,As shines the Virgin on the midnight hours, So is thy presence at the bed of pain;And as the flowers revive to bloom more fair, And o'er the plain the wattles burst in fire,And midnight hours to morn at last repair, So hope and life thy minist'rings inspire;And though for me there's but the life and hope That lie abundant past the gates of Death,Yet thither as with feeble steps I grope Thy friendly arm assists my failing breath;Nor will I deem of Providence the worseWho sent me pain to send me thee for nurse

The Widow's Croone

© Galt John

And maun I lanely spin the tow, And ca' the weary wheel,For cauld they lie,--where do they lie, The winsome and the leil?

Fairies

© Fyleman Rose

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden! It's not so very, very far away;You pass the gardener's shed and you just keep straight ahead; I do so hope they've really come to stay