Morning poems
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For Four Guilds: II. The Bridge-Builders
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
In the world's whitest morning
As hoary with hope,
The First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified
© Robert Burns
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!
The Birth Of Flattery
© George Crabbe
Muse of my Spenser, who so well could sing
The passions all, their bearings and their ties;
Morning
© John Crowe Ransom
THE skies were jaded, while the famous sun
Slack of his office to confute the fogs
A Remonstrance, Addressed to a Friend Who Complained of Being Alone in the World
© Alaric Alexander Watts
Oh! say not thou art all alone
Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth;
A Letter From Peking
© Harriet Monroe
October I5th, 1910.
My friend, dear friend, why should I hear your voice
The Cycle
© Robinson Jeffers
The clapping blackness of the wings of pointed cormorants,
the great indolent planes
The Siege Of Corinth
© George Gordon Byron
XXVII.
Still the old man stood erect,
And Alp's career a moment check'd.
"Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take,
For thine own, thy daughter's sake."
The English Graves
© Robert Laurence Binyon
The rains of yesterday are flown,
And light is on the farthest hills;
The homeliest rough grass by the stone
To radiance thrills;
In The Servants' Quarters
© Thomas Hardy
'Man, you too, aren't you, one of these rough followers of the criminal?
All hanging hereabout to gather how he's going to bear
Examination in the hall.' She flung disdainful glances on
The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there,
Who warmed them by its flare.
The Australian Sunrise
© James Lister Cuthbertson
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
Biography
© John Masefield
Yet when I am dust my penman may not know
Those water-trampling ships which made me glow,
But think my wonder mad and fail to find,
Their glory, even dimly, from my mind,
And yet they made me:
Lebid
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Gone are they the lost camps, light flittings, long sojournings
in Miná, in Gháula, Rijám left how desolate.
Lost are they. Rayyán lies lorn with its white torrent beds,
scored in lines like writings left by the flood--water.
Sonnett - VIII
© James Russell Lowell
TO M.W., ON HER BIRTHDAY
Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born,
Out Of Pompeii
© William Wilfred Campbell
She lay, face downward, on her beaded arm,
In this her new, sweet dream of human bliss,
Her heart within her fearful, fluttering, warm,
Her lips yet pained with love's first timorous kiss.
Morning Song
© Sylvia Plath
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
At Waking
© Ethelwyn Wetherald
When I shall go to sleep and wake again
At dawning in another world than this,
With Scindia To Delhi
© Rudyard Kipling
More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi,
an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost
with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps,
on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.
A Maratta trooper tells the story: -
Upon The Image Of Death
© Robert Southwell
Before my face the picture hangs
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;
But yet, alas, full little I
Do think hereon that I must die.
