Hope poems
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The Beauty of Death XIV
© Khalil Gibran
Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired;
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit;
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart.
Song of the Wave XVII
© Khalil Gibran
I steal swiftly from behind the
Blue horizon to cast the silver of
My foam upon the gold of his sand, and
We blend in melted brilliance.
An Ode to the Queen on Her Jubilee Year
© William Topaz McGonagall
Sound drums and trumpets, far and near!
And Let all Queen Victoria's subjects loudly cheer!
And show by their actions that they revere,
Because she's served them faithfully fifty long year!
Horace. Book II. Ode X.
© William Cowper
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.
The Affliction Of Richard
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Love not too much. But how,
When thou hast made me such,
Letter In Prose And Verse To Mrs. Bunbury
© Oliver Goldsmith
I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candour could
require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to raise
my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer.
The Waning Moon
© William Cullen Bryant
I've watched too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!
A Poet's Death is His Life IV
© Khalil Gibran
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens
The Abbey Mason
© Thomas Hardy
(The church which, at an after date,
Acquired cathedral rank and state.)
The Masque Of Pandora
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE VOICE.
Not finished till I breathe the breath of life
Into her nostrils, and she moves and speaks.
Grey
© Archibald Thomas Strong
Lady of Sorrow! What though laughing blue,
Thy sister, mock mens anguish, and the sun
The Pietous Complainte Of The Soule.
© Thomas Hoccleve
I meanë thus: if ony part of grace Reserued be, in tresoure or ellës where,That thu, for me purveyë and purchaseWolde vouchësaff, gret wondere but there wereI-nowgh for me: nought ellës I require; Do somwhat, than, aftir thi propirte,And schewe whi thu art cleped charite.
But now, allas, ful weel I may recorde, Whil I had myght and space of tyme I-nowgh,Of this mattere, towchid I no word,Ne, to seint, I tho my self[ë] drowgh,
That in myne nede for me may spekë now, As for no service that I have to him do:Wot I not, whom to make my monë to.
Little Oliver
© William Schwenck Gilbert
EARL JOYCE he was a kind old party
Whom nothing ever could put out,
Though eighty-two, he still was hearty,
Excepting as regarded gout.
The Falcon
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Who would not be Sir Hubert, for his birth and bearing fine,
His rich sky-skirted woodlands, valleys flowing oil and wine;
The French Mariner
© Robert Bloomfield
An Old _French Mariner_ am I,
Whom Time hath render'd poor and gray;
Hear, conquering _Britons_, ere I die,
What anguish prompts me thus to say.
