Hope poems
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Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXV
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
A heavy heart, Belovèd, have I borneFrom year to year until I saw thy face,And sorrow after sorrow took the placeOf all those natural joys as lightly wornAs the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turnBy a beating heart at dance-time
Sonnets from the Portuguese: XVII
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notesGod set between His After and Before,And strike up and strike off the general roarOf the rushing worlds a melody that floatsIn a serene air purely
The Photographer
© Bramer Shannon
What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts
The Execution of Karla Faye
© Boughn Michael
Of course they've been cheering death forever, askLorca or Antigone, an execution a day in the USthey say, something to work for, that guy in the Stop 'N' Gowhen they bombed Gaddafi's kid, cheering atthe thought of pain, but that's the neighbourhood'sdark end anyway, get used to it, light your candlesmarch around the lake, don't lose sight of Amelia(how they ever could have thought that smile lessthan all their clutching--Wordsworth had that downalright--then here we are, maybe that's what they hopeto drown out cheering the news she died when the statewhatever the hell that is plunged or pulled whatever technéecstasis extension holding it to crucial distance, still somewhereflesh touches some thing, and we'd better be preparedfor the whole bloody mess because even if homeof ourselves is a rumoured infrapsychisme from whichundisputed program is accessible to, say, rejig the worksthru poem's possible modulations, there's still northof that, south, east, west and when you get homeguess who's waiting
The Demon Snow-shoes
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
The snow lies deep on hill and dale,In rocky gulch and grassy vale:The tiny, trickling, tumbling fallsAre frozen 'twixt their rocky wallsThat grey and brown look silent downUpon Kiandra's shrouded town
The Mockery of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
God! What a mockery is this life of ours!Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb,Most like an excrement, and weeping showersOf senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb,The symbol of all weakness and the sum:Our very life a sufferance
For the Fallen
© Binyon Heward Laurence
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,England mourns for her dead across the sea.Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,Fallen in the cause of the free.
Angered Reason
© Binyon Heward Laurence
Angered Reason walked with meA street so squat, unshapen, bald,So blear-windowed and grimy-walled,So dismal-doored, it seemed to be
Land of Hope and Glory
© Benson Arthur Christopher
(1) 1902 Version: VI. Land of Hope and Glory. Finale (Contralto Solo and Tutti)
On his Books
© Hilaire Belloc
When I am dead, I hope it may be said:"His sins were scarlet, but his books were read."
Visualization of Marxism
© Bell Julian Heward
Expose the world, anatomize,Strip clothes from skin, strip skin, then flesh, from bone
A Thought on Death: November, 1814
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
When life as opening buds is sweet,And golden hopes the fancy greet,And Youth prepares his joys to meet,--Alas! how hard it is to die!
The Rights of Women
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest;O born to rule in partial Law's despite,Resume thy native empire o'er the breast!
An Inventory of the Furniture in Dr. Priestley's Study
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
A map of every country known,With not a foot to call his own
