Mom poems
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The Old Violon
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
"Going, going!" the voice was loud,
And, rising, silenced the chattering crowd.
To A Lady, Who Presented The Author With The Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses
© George Gordon Byron
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Alsace-Lorraine
© George Meredith
Yet the like aerial growths may chance be the delicate sprays,
Infant of Earth's most urgent in sap, her fierier zeal
For entry on Life's upper fields: and soul thus flourishing pays
The martyr's penance, mark for brutish in man to heel.
Perfectness
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
All perfect things are saddening in effect.
The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes,
The matchless tinting on the royal rose
Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked,
The Wind And The Whirlwind
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
I have a cause to plead. But to what ears?
How shall I move a world by lamentation,
A world which heeded not a Nation's tears?
An Epistle To Joseph Hill, Esq.
© William Cowper
Dear Joseph,-- five and twenty years ago--
Alas! how time escapes -- 'tis even so!--
Faith And Works. A Tale.
© Hannah More
Good Dan and Jane were man and wife,
And lived a loving kind of life.
On The Marriage Of A Virgin
© Dylan Thomas
Waking alone in a multitude of loves when morning's light
Surprised in the opening of her nightlong eyes
Weary
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Here, in the silent churchyard, 'mid a thousand dead, alone,
Weary I sit for a moment clasping this cross of stone,
The Conversation Of Eiros And Charmion
© Edgar Allan Poe
Dreams are with us no more;but of these mysteries
anon. I rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational.
The film of the shadow has already passed from off your
eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your allotted days of
stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself induct you
into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
The Tower of the Dream
© Charles Harpur
But not thus always are our dreams benign;
Oft are they miscreationsgloomier worlds,
Crowded tempestuously with wrongs and fears,
More ghastly than the actual ever knew,
And rent with racking noises, such as should
Go thundering only through the wastes of hell.
A Dilettante
© Augusta Davies Webster
Good friend, be patient: goes the world awry?
well, can you groove it straight with all your pains?
and, sigh or scold, and, argue or intreat,
what have you done but waste your part of life
on impotent fool's battles with the winds,
that will blow as they list in spite of you?
