Life poems
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Good Friday
© John Keble
Is it not strange, the darkest hour
That ever dawned on sinful earth
Should touch the heart with softer power
For comfort than an angel's mirth?
That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?
The Voice in the Wild Oak
© Henry Kendall
Twelve years ago, when I could face
High heavens dome with different eyes
The Heroic Enthusiasts - Part The Second =Third Dialogue=.
© Giordano Bruno
LIB. Reclining in the shade of a cypress-tree, the enthusiast finding
his mind free from other thoughts, it happened that the heart and the
eyes spoke together as if they were animals and substances of different
intellects and senses, and they made lament of that which was the
beginning of his torment and which consumed his soul.
Inscription For A Stone Erected At The Sowing Of A Grove Of Oaks At Chillington, Anno 1790
© William Cowper
Other stones the era tell,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
Snow
© Viggo Stuckenberg
It is a long way, a long way away in the land where all the Fairy Tales happen.
Out on a flat, snow covered, endless barren field squats a tumbledown hut, and in the hut's only room sits a bent old man breathing on the ice on the windowpane. He is staring out over the lonely snow-plain which is empty, cold and trackless, while and sterile all the way to the frost-blue clouds on the horizon. The old man's breath spreads like thin steam over the pane, and freezes. The frost creaks in the woodwork. The cold steals in from outside through cracks and chinks, and long icicles hang down from the eaves like a lattice in front of the window.
To-Day
© Augusta Davies Webster
OH God, where hast thou hidden Truth? Oh Truth,
Where is the road to God?
Farewell to the Muse
© Sir Walter Scott
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
The Princess (part 3)
© Alfred Tennyson
Morn in the wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold.
We rose, and each by other drest with care
Descended to the court that lay three parts
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touched
Above the darkness from their native East.
Italy : 44. A Character
© Samuel Rogers
One of two things Montrioli may have,
My envy or compassion. Both he cannot.
Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries,
What least of all he would consent to lose,
Spleen (I)
© Charles Baudelaire
Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.
To my Mother
© Louisa Stuart Costello
Yes, I have sung of others' woes,
Until they almost seem'd mine own,
And fancy oft will scenes disclose
Whose being was in thought alone:
Sonnet XVI: Happy In Sleep
© Samuel Daniel
Happy in sleep, waking content to languish,
Embracing clouds by night; in daytime, mourn;
Inebriety
© George Crabbe
The mighty spirit, and its power, which stains
The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,
The King's Pilgrimage
© Rudyard Kipling
Our King went forth on pilgrimage
His prayers and vows to pay
To them that saved our heritage
And cast their own away.
An Eclogue
© Thomas Parnell
Now early shepheards ore ye meadow pass,
And print long foot-steps in the glittering grass;
The Cows unfeeding near the cottage stand,
By turns obedient to the Milkers hand,
Or loytring stretch beneath an Oaken shade,
Or lett the suckling Calf defraud the maid.
