Mom poems
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The Progress of Error
© William Cowper
Sing, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long
May find a muse to grace it with a song),
Italy : 38. Foreign Travel
© Samuel Rogers
It was in a splenetic humour that I sat me down to my
scanty fare at Terracina ; and how long I should have
contemplated the lean thrushes in array before me, I
cannot say, if a cloud of smoke, that drew the tears
Hymns to the Night : 4
© Novalis
Now I know when will come the last morning - when the Light no more scares away Night and Love - when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night - truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles - tabernacles of peace, there longs and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring - afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise
© William Wordsworth
HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
Ghazal 3
© Daagh Dehlvi
na maza hai dushmani main na hai lutf dosti main
koi gair gair hota koi yar yar hota
The Adventures Of Little Bob Bonnyface
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
(Don't you think that his was a wretched plight?
Just picture a boy from a bird in flight!
His heart and his knee-joints weak with fright.)
An Autumnal Simile
© Victor Marie Hugo
The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread,
Starting from off the ground beneath the tread,
Coursed o'er the garden-plain;
Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings,
Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings,
Then, swiftly, falls again.
Rose Mary
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone
Lost the first, but the second won.
The Death Of Adam
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Cedars, that high upon the untrodden slopes
Of Lebanon stretch out their stubborn arms,
Through all the tempests of seven hundred years
Fast in their ancient place, where they look down
Svanhvit's Colloquy
© Per Daniel Amadeus Atterbom
What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,
My star, appear to me on one of them?
Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.
Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.
The Little White Sun
© Annie Campbell Huestis
THE sky had a gray, gray face,
The touch of the mist was chill,
The earth was an eerie place,
For the wind moaned over the hill;
But the brown earth laughed, and the sky turned blue,
When the little white sun came peeping through.
Lords Of The Visionary Eye
© Madison Julius Cawein
I CAME upon a pool that shone,
Clear, emerald-like, among the hills,
That seemed old wizards round a stone
Of magic that a vision thrills.
The Shakedown on the Floor
© Henry Lawson
Set me back for twenty summers
For Im tired of cities now
A Book of Dreams: Part II
© George MacDonald
A great church in an empty square,
A place of echoing tones;
Feet pass not oft enough to wear
The grass between the stones.
A Postscript unto the Reader
© Michael Wigglesworth
And now good Reader, I return again
To talk with thee, who hast been at the pain
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto VI.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
IV A Riddle Solved
Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,
When you, you wonder why, love none.
We love, Fool, for the good we do,
Not that which unto us is done!
The Locomotive
© Julian Tuwim
A big locomotive has pulled into town,
Heavy, humungus, with sweat rolling down,
A plump jumbo olive.
Huffing and puffing and panting and smelly,
Fire belches forth from her fat cast iron belly.
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 X. Rob Roys Grave
© William Wordsworth
Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.
