Music poems
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Dedicatory Poem: To George Sigerson, Poet And Scholar
© Padraic Colum
Two men of art, they say, were with the sons
Of Milé,a poet and a harp player,
When Milé, having taken Ireland, left
The land to his sons rule; the poet was
Cir, and fair Cendfind was the harp player.
The Spirit Of Discovery By Sea - Book The Fourth
© William Lisle Bowles
O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave
No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring;
But angels, as the high pines wave,
Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.
At Last
© John Greenleaf Whittier
When on my day of life the night is falling,
And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,
I hear far voices out of darkness calling
My feet to paths unknown,
Within and Without: Part V: A Dramatic Poem
© George MacDonald
Julian.
A heart that knows what thou canst never know,
Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell.
Deacon Jones' Grievance
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I'VE been watchin' of 'em parson,
An' I'm sorry fur to say
Pippa Passes: Part IV: Night
© Robert Browning
Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly desire life now, that I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared?Benedicto benedicatur . . . ugh, ugh! Where was I? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter-weather: but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 't was full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To the Intendant]
Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apartment]
I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo.
The Rock Of Cader Idris
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
The Imprisoned Sea-Winds
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
VOICES of strange sea breezes caught,
Half tangled in the pine-tree tall,
With ocean's tenderest music fraught,
Serenely rise, and sweetly fall.
To the Nightingale
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many Bards in city garret pent,
An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry
© Thomas Parnell
I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 95
© Alfred Tennyson
While now we sang old songs that peal'd
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease,
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees
Laid their dark arms about the field.
Songs Set To Music: 8. Set By Mr. Smith
© Matthew Prior
Still, Dorinda, I adore;
Think I mean not to deceive you,
For I loved you much before,
And, alas! now love you more
Though I force myself to leave you.
Daylight And Moonlight. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In broad daylight, and at noon,
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white,
As a schoolboy's paper kite.
Army Of Northern Virginia
© Stephen Vincent Benet
He only said it once-the marble closed-
There was a man enclosed within that image.
There was a force that tried Proportion's rule
And died without a legend or a cue
To bring it back. The shadow-Lees still live.
But the first-person and the singular Lee?
Don Juan: Canto The Third
© George Gordon Byron
The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
Sunday Morning
© Louis MacNeice
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
Ode To The Spirit Of The Earth In Autumn
© George Meredith
The crimson-footed nymph is panting up the glade,
With the wine-jar at her arm-pit, and the drunken ivy-braid
Round her forehead, breasts, and thighs: starts a Satyr, and they
speed:
Hear the crushing of the leaves: hear the cracking of the bough!
And the whistling of the bramble, the piping of the weed!
