Morning poems
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To --------
© Anne Brontë
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
Why Do I Love?
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Why do I love?
Is it for men to choose
The hour of the hushed night when crowned with dews
From its sea grave the morning star shall wake?
Alfred. Book V.
© Henry James Pye
As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.
The Coming Era
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
THEY tell us that the Muse is soon to fly hence,
Leaving the bowers of song that once were dear,
Her robes bequeathing to her sister, Science,
The groves of Pindus for the axe to clear.
Le Revenant (The Ghost)
© Charles Baudelaire
Comme les anges à l'oeil fauve,
Je reviendrai dans ton alcôve
Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit
Avec les ombres de la nuit;
Trivia ; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London : Book II.
© John Gay
Of Walking the Streets by Day.
Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful lays
The Last Reader
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
I sometimes sit beneath a tree
And read my own sweet songs;
Though naught they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs
A tone that might have passed away
But for that scarce remembered lay.
Dirge Of The Dead Sisters
© Rudyard Kipling
Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order
(Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?)
And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter,
And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair?
Faris
© Adam Mickiewicz
In vain, in vain they threaten me!
I speed on with redoubled blows.
The haughty crags have I outgazed,
And, where such hostile front they raised,
Now in a long defile they flee,
Nor one behind another shows.
The Dunciad: Book II.
© Alexander Pope
Not with more glee, by hands Pontific crown'd,
With scarlet hats wide-waving circled round,
Rome in her Capitol saw Querno sit,
Throned on seven hills, the Antichrist of wit.
Morgan
© Edward Harrington
When Morgan crossed the Murray to Peechelba and doom
A sombre silent shadow rode with him through the gloom.
The wild things of the forest slunk from the outlaw's track,
The boobook croaked a warning, "Go back, go back, go back!"
It woke no answering echo in Morgan's blackened soul,
As onward through the darkness he rode towards his goal.
The Drovers
© Roland Robinson
Over the plains of the whitening grass
and the stunted mulga the drovers pass,
and in the red dust cloud, each side
of the cattle, the native stockmen ride.
Morning, Noon and Night
© James Weldon Johnson
When morning shows her first faint flush,
I think of the tender blush
That crept so gently to your cheek
When first my love I dared to speak;
How, in your glance, a dawning ray
Gave promise of love's perfect day.
The First Mocking-Bird In Spring
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WINGED poet of vernal ethers!
Ah! where hast thou lingered long?
I have missed thy passionate, skyward flights
And the trills of thy changeful song.
The Fever-Dream
© Caroline Norton
IT was a fever-dream; I lay
Awake, as in the broad bright day,
But faint and worn I drew my breath
Like those who wait for coming death;
The Ghost - Book I
© Charles Churchill
With eager search to dart the soul,
Curiously vain, from pole to pole,
