Morning poems
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The Country Ride
© Kenneth Slessor
EARTH which has known so many passages
Of April air, so many marriages
Of strange and lovely atoms breeding light,
Never may find again that lost delight.
A Song Of Derivations
© Alice Meynell
I come from nothing; but from where
Come the undying thoughts I bear?
Down, through the long links of death and birth,
From the past poets of the earth,
My immortality is there.
Invocation To Youth
© Robert Laurence Binyon
COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning!
Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew
A Country Nosegay
© Alfred Austin
Where have you been through the long sweet hours
That follow the fragrant feet of June?
By the dells and the dingles gathering flowers,
Ere the dew of the dawn be sipped by noon.
A Poem Sacred to the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton
© James Thomson
And what new wonders can ye show your guest!
Who, while on this dim spot, where mortals toil
Clouded in dust, from motion's simple laws,
Could trace the secret hand of Providence,
Wide-working through this universal frame.
How The Women Went From Dover
© John Greenleaf Whittier
THE tossing spray of Cocheco's fall
Hardened to ice on its rocky wall,
As through Dover town in the chill, gray dawn,
Three women passed, at the cart-tail drawn!
Hunger
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I come among the peoples like a shadow.
I sit down by each man's side.
Eight Sonnets
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall remember only of this hour--
And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep--
The pathos of your love, that, like a flower,
Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,
Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,
The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.
The Cathedral
© James Russell Lowell
Far through the memory shines a happy day,
Cloudless of care, down-shod to every sense,
The Maid of Gerringong
© Henry Kendall
Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast,
With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past,
Fairy Singing
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
SHE was my love and the pulse of my heart;
Lovely she was as the flowers that start
Straight to the sun from the earth's tender breast,
Sweet as the wind blowing out of the west--
Elana, Elana, my strong one, my white one,
Soft be the wind blowing over your rest!
On The Receipt Of My Mother's Picture Out Of Norfolk
© William Cowper
Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thinethy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me
Bud Discusses Cleanliness
© Edgar Albert Guest
First thing in the morning, last I hear at night,
Get it when I come from school: "My, you look a sight!
Go upstairs this minute, an' roll your sleeves up high
An' give your hands a scrubbing and wipe 'em till they're dry!
Now don't stand there and argue, and never mind your tears!
And this time please remember to wash your neck and ears."
A Masque Presented At Ludlow Castle, 1634. (Comus)
© John Milton
The Scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner of
deliciousness: soft music, tables spread with all dainties. Comus
appears with his rabble, and the LADY set in an enchanted chair;
to
whom he offers his glass; which she puts by, and goes about to
rise.
The Ghost's Leavetaking
© Sylvia Plath
Enter the chilly no-man's land of about
Five o'clock in the morning, the no-color void
Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,
When Hannah Pressed With Grief
© John Newton
When Hannah pressed with grief,
Poured forth her soul in prayer;
She quickly found relief,
And left her burden there:
Like her, in every trying case,
Let us approach the throne of grace.
On His Ladies Waking
© Pierre de Ronsard
My lady woke upon a morning fair,
What time Apollos chariot takes the skies,
Becoming A Dad
© Edgar Albert Guest
Old women say that men don't know
The pain through which all mothers go,
A Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age
© Alice Meynell
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses,
O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses
What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
Roses, Birds And Some Men
© Edgar Albert Guest
The world is full of roses, blooming red for me I and you,
They smile a morning welcome and are wet with heavenly dew,
