Life poems
/ page 196 of 844 /
The Politician
© William Wilfred Campbell
Carven in leathern mask or brazen face,
Were I time's sculptor, I would set this man.
The Idlers Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. March
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
A WEEK AT PARIS
When loud March from the East begins to blow,
And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie
By the night train to Paris, where we know
Visions for the Entertainment and Instruction of Younger Minds: Content
© Nathaniel Cotton
Far from the city I reside,
And a thatch'd cottage all my pride.
The Nest
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
AT the Poet's life-core lying
Is a sheltered and sacred nest,
Where, as yet, unfledged for flying,
His callow fancies rest:
To The Future
© James Russell Lowell
O Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height
Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers,
The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathedral)
© Jean Ingelow
Marvels of sleep, grown cold!
Who hath not longed to fold
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss,
Those cherub forms that lie,
With none to watch them nigh,
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss?
Genesis BK I
© Caedmon
(ll. 78-81) Then was there calm as formerly in heaven, the kindly
ways of peace. The Lord was dear to all, a Prince among His
thanes, and glory was renewed of angel legions knowing
blessedness with God.
Stanzas to Cynthio
© Amelia Opie
As o'er the sands the youthful Cynthio strayed,
Moist from the wave he saw a pebble shine,
While, with its borrowed lustre charmed, he said
"Henceforth this sparkling treasure shall be mine."
Were My Bosom As False as Thou Deem'st It To Be
© George Gordon Byron
Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
I need not have wander'd from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race.
The Complaint of Nature
© John Logan
Few are thy days and full of woe,
O man of woman born!
Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return."
Answering The Grumblers
© Edgar Albert Guest
When night time comes an' I can go
Back to the folks who love me so,
An' see 'em smile an' hear 'em sing,
An' feel their kisses, then, by jing!
I vow this world is mighty fine
An' run upon a great design.
The Bridal of Pennacook
© John Greenleaf Whittier
No bridge arched thy waters save that where the trees
Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in the breeze:
No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores,
The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars.
A Piccaninny.
© James Brunton Stephens
LO by the "humpy" door a smockless Venus!
Unblushing bronze, she shrinks not, having seen us,
Empty
© Ada Cambridge
Can this be my poem?-this poor fragment
Of bald thought in meanest language dressed!
Can this string of rhymes be my sweep poem?
All its poetry wholly unexpressed!
ElegyXI: The Bracelet
© John Donne
NOT that in colour it was like thy hair,
For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear ;
After Ascension
© Katharine Tynan
Those twelve years from Ascension
Until the day of meeting broke,
She was not so much all alone
As it might seem to common folk,
Because no day passed without bliss:
He gives Himself back to her kiss.
The Angel Of Patience
© John Greenleaf Whittier
To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And Heavenly Father sends him here.
Sweet Fern
© John Greenleaf Whittier
The subtle power in perfume found
Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned;
On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound
No censer idly burned.
