Music poems
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On The Death Of Lieut. William Howard Allen, Of The American Navy
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave,
And wept as nations weep their cherished dead,
With bitter, but proud tears, and o'er his head
The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave,
Loraine
© George Essex Evans
In her dark-ringed eyes shone the sad unrest
That spoke in the heave of her troubled breast,
And her face was white as the chiselled stone,
And her lips pressed madly against my own,
And her heart beat wildly against my heart,
And we strove to go, but we could not part.
Behold the Deeds!
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans.
There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
The Burial of Saint Brendan
© Padraic Colum
ON the third day from this (Saint Brendan said)
I will be where no wind that filled a sail
God Made This Day For Me
© Edgar Albert Guest
This is jes' my style o' weather-sunshine floodin' all the place,
An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face;
An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had
A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.
Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,
An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.
On A Beautiful Spring,
© William Lisle Bowles
FORMING A COLD BATH, AT COOMBE, NEAR DONHEAD, BELONGING TO MY BROTHER,
CHAS. BOWLES, ESQ.
The White Maiden And The Indian Girl
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?
To Shakespeare
© Lord Alfred Douglas
For now thy praises have become too loud
On vulgar lips, and every yelping cur
Yaps thee a paean ; the whiles little men,
Not tall enough to worship in a crowd,
Spit their small wits at thee. Ah ! better then
The broken shrine, the lonely worshipper.
To a Skylark
© William Wordsworth
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
The Poet And The Muse
© Alfred Austin
Whither, and whence, and why hast fled?
Thou art dumb, my muse; thou art dumb, thou art dead,
As a waterless stream, as a leafless tree.
What have I done to banish thee?
The Defeat of Youth
© Aldous Huxley
I. UNDER THE TREES.
There had been phantoms, pale-remembered shapes
Moon-Light
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
COME, gentle muse! now all is calm,
The dew descends, the air is balm;
Unruffled is the glassy deep,
While moon-beams o'er its bosom sleep;
My Studio
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
I LOVE it, yet I hardly can tell why
My studio with its window to the sky,
Far up above the noises of the street,
The rumbling carts, the ceaseless tramp of feet;
The Avalanche
© Alaric Alexander Watts
'Tis Night; and Silence with unmoving wings
Broods o'er the sleeping waters;ânot a sound
The Battle Of Kings Mountain
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
OFTTIMES an old man's yesterdays o'er his frail vision pass,
Dim as the twilight tints that touch a dusk-enshrouded glass;
But, ah! youth's time and manhood's prime but grow more brave, more bright,
As still the lengthening shadows steal toward the rayless night.
The Green River
© Lord Alfred Douglas
I know a green grass path that leaves the field,
And like a running river, winds along
Orpheus In Thrace
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
Dear is the newly won,
But O far dearer the for ever lost!
He that at utmost cost
