Pet poems
/ page 40 of 126 /
Epistle To Augusta
© George Gordon Byron
I.
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine;
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
Love Sonnets
© Charles Harpur
How beautiful doth the morning rise
Oer the hills, as from her bower a bride
Comes brightenedblushing with the shame-faced pride
Of love that now consummated supplies
The Haunch Of Venison
© Oliver Goldsmith
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE
THANKS, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Of Taking things Easy
© Arthur Maquarie
TELL me what boots to battle, when the end
Is foreseen failure? What, by heaven, I ask
A Woman's Last Song. - From an Unpublished Romance
© Alaric Alexander Watts
'Tis now that softening hour
When love hath deepest power,
The Vigil Of Venus
© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Tunc liquore de superno spumeo et ponti globo,
Cærulas inter catervas, inter et bipedes equos,
Fecit undantem Dionen de maritis imbribus.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quiqiie amavit cras amet.
Pippa Passes: Part III: Evening
© Robert Browning
Mother
If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing
The utmost heaviness of music's heart.
The Death-Raven (From The Danish Of Oehlenslaeger)
© George Borrow
"The wealthy bird came towering,
Came scowering,
O'er hill and stream.
'Look here, look here, thou needy bird,
How gay my feathers gleam.'
The Bother
© Rudyard Kipling
Hastily Adam our driver swallowed a curse in the darkness-
Petrol nigh at end and something wrong with a sprocket
Homage to Hieronymus Bosch
© Thomas MacGreevy
A woman with no face walked into the light;
A boy, in a brown-tree norfolk suit,
Holding on
Without hands
To her seeming skirt.
The Humming Birds
© Alfred Noyes
Green wing and ruby throat,
What shining spell, what exquisite sorcery,
Lured you to float
And fight with bees round this one flowering tree?
The Bride Of The Nile - Act III
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
(Enter Barix and Boïlas conversing.)
Barix. I always said it, Boïlas, it must come at last,
The day of annexation. Things have moved on fast,
Faster than we quite thought a week or two ago.
The mills of Rome grind slowly--quite absurdly slow.
It comes to the same thing.
Songs Of Education: II. Geography
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
The earth is a place on which England is found,
And you find it however you twirl the globe round;
For the spots are all red and the rest is all grey,
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.
Seasonal Cycle - Chapter 05 - Winter
© Kalidasa
"Oh, dear with best thighs, heart-stealing is this environ with abundantly grown stacks of rice and their cobs, or with sugarcane, and it is reverberated with the screeches of ruddy gees that abide hither and thither… now heightened will be passion, thereby this season will be gladdening for lusty womenfolk, hence listen of this season, called Shishira, the Winter…
"At this time, people enjoy abiding in the medial places of their residences, whose ventilators are blockaded for the passage of chilly air, and at fireplaces, in sunrays, with heavy clothing, and along with mature women of age, for they too will be passionately steamy…
The Beech Tree's Petition
© Thomas Campbell
O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Prejudice
© Jane Taylor
It is not worth our while, but if it were,
We all could undertake to laugh at her ;
Since vulgar prejudice, the lowest kind,
Of course, has full possession of her mind ;
Here, therefore, let us leave her, and inquire
Wherein it differs as it rises higher.
Editing Poetry
© Karl Shapiro
Next to my office where I edit poems ("Can poems be edited?") there is the Chicago Models club. All day the girls stroll past my door where I am editing poems, behind my head a signed photograph of Rupert Brooke, handsomer than any movie star. I edit, keeping one eye peeled for models, straining my ears to hear what they say. In there they photograph the girls on the bamboo furniture, glossies for the pulsing facades of night spots. One day the manager brings me flowers, a huge and damaged bouquet: hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns (least hurt), and bruised carnations. I accept the gift, remainder of last night's opening (where?), debut of lower-class blondes. I distribute the flowers in the other poetry rooms, too formal-looking for our disarray.
Now after every model's bow to the footlights the manager brings more flowers, hurt gladiolas, overly open roses, long-leaping ferns, and bruised carnations. I edit poems to the click of sharp high heels, flanked by the swords of lavendar debut, whiffing the cinnamon of crepe-paper-pink carnations of the bruised and lower-class blondes.
Behind me rears my wall of books, most formidable of himan barriers. No flower depresses me like the iris but these I have a fondness for. They bring stale memories ver the threshold of the street. They bring the night of cloth palm trees and soft plastic leopard charis, night of sticky drinks, the shining rhinestone hour in the dark-blue mirror, the peroxide chat of models and photogenic morn.
Today the manager brings all gladioli. A few rose petals lie in the corridor. The mail is heavy this morning.
Fragment
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Within the soldier's helmet see
The nesting dove;
Venus and Mars, it seems to me,
In love.
Petrarca's Retreat
© Luigi Alamanni
Vaucluse, ye hills and glades and shady vale,
So long the noble Tuscan bard's retreat,
