Love poems

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To toil all day and lie worn-out at night;To rise for all the years to slave and sleep,And breed new broods to do no other thingIn toiling, bearing, breeding -- life is thisTo myriad men, too base for man or brute

The Cry of the Dreamer

© O'Reilly John Boyle

I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men;Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again

Villanelle of Ye Young Poet's First Villanelle to his Ladye and Ye Difficulties Thereof

© O'Neill Eugene

To sing the charms of Rosabelle,To pour my soul out at her feet,I try to write this villanelle.

To Winter

© O'Neill Eugene

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind." Away from here,And I shall greet thy passing breath Without a tear.

A Regular Sort of a Guy

© O'Neill Eugene

He fights where the fighting is thickest And keeps his high honor clean;From finish to start, he is sturdy of heart, Shunning the petty and mean;With his friends in their travail and sorrow, He is ever there to stand by,And hark to their plea, for they all know that he Is a regular sort of a guy

"It's Great When You Get In"

© O'Neill Eugene

They told me the water was lovely, That I ought to go for a swim,The air was maybe a trifle cool, "You won't mind it when you get in"So I journeyed cheerfully beach-ward, And nobody put me wise,But everyone boosted my courage With an earful of jovial lies

The Dance at McDougall's

© O'Hagan Thomas

In a little log house near the rim of the forest With its windows of sunlight, its threshold of stone,Lived Donald McDougall, the quaintest of Scotchmen, And Janet his wife, in their shanty, alone:By day the birds sang them a chorus of welcome, At night they saw Scotland again in their dreams;They toiled full of hope 'mid the sunshine of friendship, Their hearts leaping onward like troutlets in streams, In the little log home of McDougall's

Voice of the Twentieth Century

© Robert Norwood

Voice of our Century, whose heart is broken,Weeping for those who will not come again--Lord Christ! hast thou been crucified in vain?--Challenge the right of every Tyrant's token:The fist of mail; the sceptre; ancient, oakenCoffers of gold for which thy sons are slain;The pride of place, which from the days of CainHath for the empty right of Power spoken!

Be like a trumpet blown from clouds of doomAgainst whatever seeks to bind on earth;Bring from the blood of battle, from the wombOf women weeping for their dead, the birthOf better days with banishment of wrong,Love in all hearts, on every lip--a song

A Song of Workers

© Robert Norwood

Hail to the hodmen,The builders of houses!Hail to the navviesLaying pipes for pure water!Hail to the minersPrisoned in pits,Cleaving the coal,Dauntless of death from the gases!

Darwin

© Robert Norwood

Eternal night and solitude of space;Breath as of vapour crimsoning to flame;Far constellations moving in the sameInvariable order and the paceThat times the sun, or earth's elliptic raceAmong the planets: Life--dumb, blind and lame--Creeping from form to form, until her shameBlends with the beauty of a human face!

Death can not claim what Life so hardly wonOut of her ancient warfare with the Void--O Man! whose day is only now begun,Go forth with her and do what she hath done;Till thy last enemy--Death--be destroyed,And earth outshine the splendour of the sun

The Somerset Woman's Story

© Nicholls Marjory

Lonely of Heart

She Clothed Herself in Dreams

© Nicholls Marjory

She clothed herself in dreams all magical--Did ever Princess in a tale of oldShow half so daintily and rare as sheA lily exquisite--all white and gold?

Poppies

© Nicholls Marjory

There are scarlet poppies in her garden-bed, Debonair and full of glowing grace!There are scarlet poppies in a field of France And they're flaunting in her dead love's face.

Little Daughter

© Nicholls Marjory

My daughter, my little child Who, but yesterdayWas, in my count of the years But a child at play;My daughter, my little child Now wanders apartObsessed with some secret thought-- Some sorrow of heart.

Four Errors

I saw a fairy, perched on a stone.I stared too hard, and she was gone.

A Changeling

When nurse won't talk of fairies And says that I'm a bother,'Tis then I run away and hide, Or seek my eldest brother.

The Wanderer

To Youth there comes a whisper out of the west: "O loiterer, hasten where there waits for theeA life to build, a love therein to nest, And a man's work, serving the age to be."

The Sailing of the Long-ships

They saw the cables loosened, they saw the gangways cleared,They heard the women weeping, they heard the men that cheered;Far off, far off, the tumult faded and died away,And all alone the sea-wind came singing up the Bay