Men poems

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131

The Thin People

© Sylvia Plath

They are always with us, the thin people

Meager of dimension as the gray people

Satire I

© John Donne

Away thou fondling motley humorist,

Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,

The Borough. Letter IV: Sects And Professions In Religion

© George Crabbe

"SECTS in Religion?"--Yes of every race

We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;

Home-Sick

© Ada Cambridge

O time, great Healer! canst thou still

The crying hearts that feel the knife?

THE ARGUMENT.- Turnus takes advantage of AEneas's absence,
fires some of his ships (which are transformed into sea nymphs),
and assaults his camp. The Trojans, reduc'd to the last extremities,
send Nisus and Euryalus to recall AEneas; which furnishes the
poet with that admirable episode of their friendship, generosity, and
the conclusion of their adventures.

'Look At The Clock!' : Patty Morgan The Milkmaid's Story

© Richard Harris Barham

And 'still on each evening when pleasure fills up,'
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr Pryce, if he's there,
Will get into 'the Chair,'

The Trains

© Judith Wright

Racing on iron errands, the trains go by,
and over the white acres of our orchards
hurl their wild summoning cry, their animal cry….
the trains go north with guns.

My Childhood Home I See Again

© Abraham Lincoln

My childhoods home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
Theres pleasure in it too.

Paa Forpost

© Carl Ploug

Nattens dæmrende Taager

Har sig paa Engen lagt

The Corsair

© George Gordon Byron

1.
'Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before

Orlando Furioso Canto 5

© Ludovico Ariosto

ARGUMENT

Lurcanio, by a false report abused,

The Death of Slavery

© William Cullen Bryant

O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years,

Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield

Wheat

© William Barnes

In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left

'Ithin its darksome bed,

Thou Shalt Not Kill

Harry who didnt care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The Sacrilege: (A Ballad-Tragedy)

© Thomas Hardy

PART I

Piers Plowman The Prologue (B-Text)

In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonn{.e},
I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep wer{.e};
In habite as an hermite unholy of werk{.e}s
Wente I wyde in this world wondr{.e}s to her{.e};
Bote in a May{.e}s morwnynge on Malverne hull{.e}s
Me bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thought{.e}.