Morning poems

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The youth, who long hath trod with trusting feet,
Starts from the flash which shows him life's deceit;
Then, with slow footstep, ponders, undeceived,
On all his heart, for many a year, believed;
But hence he eyes the world with sharpened view,
And learns, too soon, to separate false from true.

Epilogue

© Charles Baudelaire

With quiet heart, I climbed the hill,
from which one can see, the city, complete,
hospitals, brothels, purgatory, hell,
prison, where every sin flowers, at our feet.

The Season

© Alfred Austin

So sings the river through the summer days,
And I, submissive, follow what I praise.
What if my boyish blood would rather stay
Where lawns invite, where bonnibels delay,
Though but a youth and not averse from these,
To conflict called, I abdicate my ease,

Sonnet XIII:The light that rises from your feet to your hair

© Pablo Neruda

The light that rises from your feet to your hair,
the strength enfolding your delicate form,
are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver:
you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores.

Summer - The Second Pastoral; or Alexis

© Alexander Pope

A Shepherd's Boy (he seeks no better name)

Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,

England And Spain

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Illustrious names! still, still united beam,
Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme:
So when two radiant gems together shine,
And in one wreath their lucid light combine;
Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays,
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze.

Book Of the Parsees - The Bequest Of The Ancient Persian Faith

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

BRETHREN, what bequest to you should come
From the lowly poor man, going home,
Whom ye younger ones with patience tended,
Whose last days ye honour'd and defended?

Our Indian Summer

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise,
With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes;
To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone
Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown.

The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816

© William Wordsworth

I
HAIL, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night!
Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude
On hearts howe'er insensible or rude;

We're Dreamers All

© Edgar Albert Guest

Oh, man must dream of gladness wherever his pathways lead,
And a hint of something better is written in every creed;
And nobody wakes at morning but hopes ere the day is o'er
To have come to a richer pleasure than ever he's known before.

The Ride

© Madison Julius Cawein

She rode o'er hill, she rode o'er plain,
She rode by fields of barley,
By morning-glories filled with rain,
And beechen branches gnarly.

Spring

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

At last young April, ever frail and fair,
Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair,
Chased to the margin of receding floods
O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds,
In tears and blushes sighs herself away,
And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May.

On The Threshold

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

AN usher standing at the door
I show my white rosette;
A smile of welcome, nothing more,
Will pay my trifling debt;
Why should I bid you idly wait
Like lovers at the swinging gate?

The Unseen Model

© George MacDonald

Forth to his study the sculptor goes
In a mood of lofty mirth:
"Now shall the tongues of my carping foes
Confess what my art is worth!
In my brain last night the vision arose,
To-morrow shall see its birth!"

The Meadow Mouse

Now he's eaten his three kinds of cheese and drunk from his
bottle-cap watering-trough-
So much he just lies in one corner,
His tail curled under him, his belly big
As his head; his bat-like ears
Twitching, tilting toward the least sound.