Pet poems
/ page 30 of 126 /
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Yes, Italy is wise, a cultured prude,
Stored with all maxims of a statelier age;
These are her lessons for our northern blood,
With its dark Saxon madness and Norse rage.
Here will I take my rest
© Shams al-Din Hafiz
My lady, that did change this house of mine
Into a heaven when that she dwelt therein,
From head to foot an angel's grace divine
Enwrapped her; pure she was, spotless of sin;
Christ at Carnival
© Muriel Stuart
Then I heard human accents answering:
"I am a god, made god by all thy prayers;
Wach stone becomes a god by worshipping;
I am a man who loves thee: in thy town
Many have loved thee, I am one of these."
Parsifal
© Arthur Symons
Rose of the garden's roses, what pale wind
Has scattered those flushed petals in an hour,
And the close leaves of all the alleys thinned,
What re-awakening wind,
O sad enchantress banished to a flower?
Religious Musings : A Desultory Poem Written On The Christmas Eve Of 1794
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
What tho' first,
In years unseason'd, I attuned the lay
To idle passion and unreal woe?
Yet serious truth her empire o'er my song
The Cloud Messenger - Part 03
© Kalidasa
Where the palaces are worthy of comparison to you in these various aspects:
you possess lightning, they have lovely women; you have a rainbow, they are
furnished with pictures; they have music provided by resounding drums, you
produce deep, gentle rumbling; you have water within, they have floors made
of gemstones; you are lofty, their rooftops touch the sky;
Who Is A Christian?
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Who is a Christian in this Christian land
Of many churches and of lofty spires?
Not he who sits in soft upholstered pews
Bought by the profits of unholy greed,
Tale III
© George Crabbe
bound;
In all that most confines them they confide,
Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their
Robins Secret
© Katharine Lee Bates
T IS the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather,
For a bird to trill and warble, all his wee red breast a-swell.
I ve a secret. You may listen till your blue eyes dance and glisten,
Little maiden, but I ll never, never, never, never tell.
The Ghost - Book IV
© Charles Churchill
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.
Sleep And Poetry
© John Keats
As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Was unto me, but why that I ne might
Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight
[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese. ~ Chaucer
Lucifers Deputy
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
A POET once, whose tuneful soul, perchance,
Too fondly leaned toward sin, and sin's romance,
On a long vanished eve, so calm and clear
None could have deemed an evil spirit near,
The Hunt (Sikar)
© Jibanananda Das
To warm their bodies through the cold night, up-country menials kept
a fire going
In the field-red fire like a cockscomb blossom,
Still burning, contorting dry aswattha leaves.
To a Lady, with Some Coloured Patterns of Flowers
© William Shenstone
Madam,-
Though rude the draughts, though artless seem the lines,
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.
© George Gordon Byron
I.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
In The Harbour: The Children's Crusade
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O the simple, child-like trust!
O the faith that could believe
What the harnessed, iron-mailed
Knights of Christendom had failed,
By their prowess, to achieve,
They, the children, could and must!
The Garden
© Margaret Widdemer
THERE were many flowers in my mother's garden,
Sword-leaved gladiolus, taller far than I,
Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple-flaring,
Velvet-painted pansies staring at the sky;
Trivia; or the Art of Walking the Streets of London: Book I.
© John Gay
Of the Implements for Walking the Streets,
and Signs of the Weather.
