Life poems

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Lines to Mr. Hodgson Written on Board the Lisbon Packet

© George Gordon Byron

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last;Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o'er the mast

Lara: Canto the First

© George Gordon Byron

XVIIMuch to be lov'd and hated, sought and fear'd

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third

© George Gordon Byron

I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth

I A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!

II Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers

And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair

© George Gordon Byron

And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth;And form so soft, and charms so rare, Too soon return'd to Earth!Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look

Oh, My Goodie Gracious

© Burke Johnny

Oh, herself Anastatia felt mopish and queer, She hadn't been well, I should say, for a year,The bright healthy color is gone from her cheek, And it's only just once in a year that she'll speak

If Your Wife Is Run Down, Give Her Cod Liver Oil

© Burke Johnny

I'm a young married man, Who is tired of my life,Ten years I'm glued on To a pale sickly wife,She does nothing all day, Only sit down and cry,And I hope to the Lord She'll get better or die.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne

© Gelett Burgess

WAKE! For the Hack can scatter into flightShakespere and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin: A Child's Story

© Robert Browning

(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger)

The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church Rome, 15--

© Robert Browning

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?Nephews--sons mine

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXVI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When we met first and loved, I did not buildUpon the event with marble

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXIX

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Because thou hast the power and own'st the graceTo look through and behind this mask of me(Against which, years have beat thus blanchinglyWith their rains,) and behold my soul's true face,The dim and weary witness of life's race,-Because thou hast the faith and love to see,Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,The patient angel waiting for a placeIn the new Heavens,-because nor sin nor woe,Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood,Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,-Nothing repels thee,

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXIV

With the same heart, I said, I'll answer theeAs those, when thou shalt call me by my name-Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy?When called before, I told how hastilyI dropped my flowers or brake off from a game,To run and answer with the smile that cameAt play last moment, and went on with meThrough my obedience

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXVII

My own Belovèd, who hast lifted meFrom this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blownA life-breath, till the forehead hopefullyShines out again, as all the angels see,Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,Who camest to me when the world was gone,And I who looked for only God, found thee!I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIV

Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knifeShut in upon itself and do no harmIn this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,And let us hear no sound of human strifeAfter the click of the shutting

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIII

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?And would the sun for thee more coldly shineBecause of grave-damps falling round my head?I marvelled, my Belovèd, when I readThy thought so in the letter

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XX

Belovèd, my Belovèd, when I thinkThat thou wast in the world a year ago,What time I sat alone here in the snowAnd saw no footprint, heard the silence sinkNo moment at thy voice, but, link by link,Went counting all my chains as if that soThey never could fall off at any blowStruck by thy possible hand,-why, thus I drinkOf life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful,Never to feel thee thrill the day or nightWith personal act or speech,-nor ever cullSome prescience of thee with the blossoms whiteThou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight

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