My green aquarium of phantom fish,
Goggling in on me through the misty panes;
My rotting leaves and fields spongy with rains;
My few clear quiet autumn days--I wish

Amoretti XXX: My Love is like to ice, and I to fire

© Edmund Spenser

My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:

How comes it then that this her cold so great

To-- Oh! there are spirits of the air

Oh! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

The Candidate

© Charles Churchill

This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the

Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the

The Annihilation of Nothing

© Thom Gunn

Nothing remained: Nothing, the wanton name
That nightly I rehearsed till led away
To a dark sleep, or sleep that held one dream.

Lancelot And Elaine

© Alfred Tennyson

How came the lily maid by that good shield
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

Hymn to Science

© Mark Akenside

But first with thy resistless light,
Disperse those phantoms from my sight,
Those mimic shades of thee;
The scholiast's learning, sophist's cant,
The visionary bigot's rant,
The monk's philosophy.

A Cypress-Bough, And A Rose-Wreath Sweet (Song)

© Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Act IV, scene iii

The Squatter's Baccy Famine.

IN blackest gloom he cursed his lot;

His breath was one long weary sigh;

America In 1804

(America Conquers Europe.)
Foul shapes that hate the day, again grown bold,
Late driven hence, infested fane and court.
The laurels of our victory were amort.

The City (1925)

© Carl Rakosi

Under this Luxemburg of heaven,
upright capstan,
small eagles. . . .
is the port of N.Y. . . . .

"O little plum tree in the garden, you're"

O little plum tree in the garden, you're
Aflower again,
With memories of a million springs and my
Brief years of pain.

Lines written under the conviction that it is not wise to read Mathematics in November after one’s fire is out

In the sad November time,

When the leaf has left the lime,

The House of Life: 41. Through Death to Love

Howbeit athwart Death's imminent shade doth soar
One Power, than flow of stream or flight of dove
Sweeter to glide around, to brood above.
Tell me, my heart,—what angel-greeted door
Or threshold of wing-winnow'd threshing-floor
Hath guest fire-fledg'd as thine, whose lord is Love?