Morning poems
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Christ On Earth
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
HAD we but lived in those mysterious days,
When, a veiled God 'mid unregenerate men,
Christ calmly walked our devious mortal ways,
Crowned with grief's bitter rue in place of bays,--
Ah! had we lived but then:
Twenty-Fifth Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
The bright-haired morn is glowing
O'er emerald meadows gay,
Allan Herbert
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
SCENE I.
[The hall of a country house in Westmoreland, surrounded with portraits of the M. . . . family. Allan Herbert, and Jocelyn, an old domestic, are seen standing before the likeness of a lady, young, and wonderfully fair.]
HERBERT.
Prometheus Unbound
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
First Voice.
But never bowed our snowy crest
As at the voice of thine unrest.
The Working Monarch
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Rising early in the morning,
We proceed to light the fire,
Then our Majesty adorning
In its work-a-day attire,
We embark without delay
On the duties of the day.
One Day And Another: A Lyrical Eclogue Part IV
© Madison Julius Cawein
_They who die young are blest.--
Should we not envy such?
They are Earth's happiest,
God-loved and favored much!--
They who die young are blest._
A Country Pathway
© James Whitcomb Riley
I come upon it suddenly, alone--
A little pathway winding in the weeds
That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
I wander as it leads.
Ode to Cynthia, on the Approach of Spring
© William Shenstone
Now in the cowslip's dewy cell
The fairies make their bed,
They hover round the crystal well,
The turf in circles tread.
Metropolitan
© Arthur Rimbaud
From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas,
on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky,
The Wreck of the Steamer 'London', while on her way to Australia
© William Topaz McGonagall
Then the captain cried, Lower down the small boats,
And see if either of them sinks or floats;
Then the small boats were launched on the stormy wave,
And each one tried hard his life to save
From a merciless watery grave.
Saint Edmond's Eve
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass,
And did you observe his frown?
He goeth to say the midnight mass,
In holy St. Edmond's town.
Enter Patient
© William Ernest Henley
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
