Music poems
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The Dying Raven
© Dana Richard Henry
Come to these lonely woods to die alone?It seems not many days since thou wast heard,From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,Calling upon thy mates -- and their clear answers
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
Cornucopia
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
There's a lodger lives on the first floor; (My lodgings are up in the garret;)At night and at morn he taketh a horn, And calleth his neighbors to share it, --A horn so long and a horn so strong, I wonder how they can bear it
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
The Passions
© William Taylor Collins
When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound;And as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for madness rul'd the hour,Would prove his own expressive pow'r
Sonnet VII. Whither is Gone the Wisdom and the Power
© Hartley Coleridge
Whither is gone the wisdom and the powerThat ancient sages scatter'd with the notesOf thought-suggesting lyres? The music floatsIn the void air; e'en at this breathing hour,In every cell and every blooming bowerThe sweetness of old lays is hovering still:But the strong soul, the self-constraining will,The rugged root that bare the winsome flowerIs weak and wither'd
The Lament of the Forest
© Cole Thomas
In joyous Summer, when the exulting earthFlung fragrance from innumerable flowersThrough the wide wastes of heaven, as on she tookIn solitude her everlasting way,I stood among the mountain heights, alone!The beauteous mountains, which the voyagerOn Hudson's breast far in the purple westMagnificent, beholds; the abutments broadWhence springs the immeasurable dome of heaven
Watercolour for Negro Expatriates in France
© Clarke George Elliott
What are calendars to you?And, indeed, what are atlases? Time is cool jazz in Bretagne,you, hidden in berets or eccentric scarves,somewhere over the rainbow
The Triumph of Love
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
Upon a Quiet Conscience
© Charles I king of Great Britain
Close thine eyes and sleep secure,Thy soul is safe, thy body sure;He that guards thee, he that keeps,Never slumbers, never sleeps
The Indian Gone!
© Canning Josiah Dean
By night I saw the Hunter's moon Slow gliding in the placid sky;Her lustre mocked the sun at noon -- I asked myself the reason why?And straightway came the sad reply: She shines as she was wont to doTo aid the Indian's aiming eye, When by her light he strung his bow, But where is he?
Beside the ancient flood I strayed, Where dark traditions mark the shore;With wizzard vision I essayed Into the misty past to pore
Stanzas for Music
© George Gordon Byron
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Third
© George Gordon Byron
I Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smil'd, And then we parted--not as now we part, But with a hope
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto the Fourth
© George Gordon Byron
I A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!
II Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers
