Power poems
/ page 15 of 324 /
Address To Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe
© William Wordsworth
CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
The Baby Sorceress
© Thomas Wentworth Higginson
My baby sits beneath the tall elm-trees,
A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands;
To My Godchild-Francis M. W. M.
© Francis Thompson
This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon,
Riding at anchor off the orient sun,
Squire Hawkins's Story
© James Whitcomb Riley
He sized it all; and Patience laid
Her hand in John's, and looked afraid,
And waited. And a stiller set
O' folks, I KNOW, you never met
In any court room, where with dread
They wait to hear a verdick read.
Pharsalia - Book V: The Oracle. The Mutiny. The Storm
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
While soldier thus and chief,
In doubtful sort, against their hidden fate
Devised their counsel, Appius alone
Feared for the chances of the war, and sought
Through Phoebus' ancient oracle to break
The silence of the gods and know the end.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Theologian's Tale; Torquemada
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain
For peasants' fields their floods of hoarded rain?
O pitiless earth! why open no abyss
To bury in its chasm a crime like this?
A Pastoral Ode. To the Hon. Sir Richard Lyttleton
© William Shenstone
The morn dispensed a dubious light,
A sudden mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers,
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.
The Model
© Harriet Monroe
Have you forgottenyou, the chief,
The art-director, president,
What not, of the establishment
Forgot how for a moment brief
The whole show, all our strife and stir,
Went outfor her?
Portrait From The Infantry
© Alan Dugan
He smelled bad and was red-eyed with the miseries
of being scared while sleepless when he said
Abrahams Sacrifice
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
The noontide sun streamed brightly down
Moriahs mountain crest,
The golden blaze of his vivid rays
Tinged sacred Jordans breast;
While towering palms and flowerets sweet,
Drooped low neath Syrias burning heat.
On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet
© Samuel Johnson
Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
The Friends of Fallen Fortunes
© Henry Lawson
The battlefield behind us,
And night loomed on the track;
Angel Tidings
© William Henry Drummond
Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears.
We bring the best of news; be not dismayed;
Emperors And Kings, How Oft Have Temples Rung
© William Wordsworth
EMPERORS and Kings, how oft have temples rung
With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's scorn!
How oft above their altars have been hung
Trophies that led the good and wise to mourn
Recollections Of A Faded Beauty
© Caroline Norton
There was a certain Irishman, indeed,
Who borrowed Cupid's darts to make me bleed.
My aunt said he was vulgar; he was poor,
And his boots creaked, and dirtied her smooth floor.
She hated him; and when he went away,
He wrote--I have the verses to this day:--
In Collins Street
© George Essex Evans
I stood in the heart of the city street,
I felt the throb of her pulses beat,
Mons Angelorum
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Joshua O father of my soul, I cannot tell.
The burden of the Lord is heavy on me,
And I am broken beneath it.
Fragment Of A Meditation
© Allen Tate
In the beginning the irresponsible Verb
Connived with chaos whence I've seen it start
Riddles in the head for the nervous heart
To count its beat on: all beginnings run
Like water the easiest way or like birds
Fly on their cool imponderable flood.
Sonnet XI. To Sheridan
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
It was some spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd
O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power!
My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymettian flowrets wreath'd:
Economy, A Rhapsody, Addressed to Young Poets
© William Shenstone
Insanis; omnes gelidis quaecunqne lacernis
Sunt tibi, Nasones Virgiliosque vides. ~Mart.
Imitation.
--Thou know'st not what thou say'st;
In garments that scarce fence them from the cold
Our Ovids and our Virgils you behold.
