Power poems
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Social Notes I, 1932
© Scott Francis Reginald
"We see thee rise, O Canada, The true North, strong and free,(Tralala-lala, tralala-lala, etc. ...)
Night Club
© Scott Francis Reginald
The girls, brighter than wine, are clothed and naked.They pose in abandon by the pools of their laughter.One man is with them, but all, all are invitedTo the short-term ceremony--and something after.
Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
© Matthew Arnold
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
The Mirror for Magistrates: The Induction
© Thomas Sackville
The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace,With blustering blasts had all ybar'd the treen,And old Saturnus, with his frosty face,With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green;The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown
Queen of Hearts
© Rowley Rosemarie
Hers, from childhood the bitter pain of tearsDreamed a peep-shy wedding to a PrinceHer one longing to be cherished through the yearsBy a lover, husband, brother: not since
Buried Life, The
© Matthew Arnold
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
Flight into Reality
© Rowley Rosemarie
Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury
The House of Life: The Sonnet
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
A Sonnet is a moment's monument, Memorial from the Soul's eternity To one dead deathless hour
The Great and Little Weavers
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
The great and the little weavers,They neither rest nor sleep.They work in the height and the glory,They toil in the dark and the deep.
The Cow Pasture
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill, By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew; The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through;The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will
Ave! (An Ode for the Shelley Centenary, 1892)
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air,Whether beneath the sole and spectral star The dear severity of dawn you wear,Or whether in the joy of ample day And speechless ecstasy of growing JuneYou lie and dream the long blue hours away Till nightfall comes too soon,Or whether, naked to the unstarred night,You strike with wondering awe my inward sight, --
II Go forth to you with longing, though the yearsThat turn not back like your returning streams And fain would mist the memory with tears,Though the inexorable years deny My feet the fellowship of your deep grass,O'er which, as o'er another, tenderer sky, Cloud phantoms drift and pass, --You know my confident love, since first, a child,Amid your wastes of green I wandered wild
White Flock
© Anna Akhmatova
Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html
A Chest of Angels
© Reibetanz John
'I have always felt that desolation,that hell itself, is most powerfully expressedin an uninhabited natural landscapeat its bleakest.' - Anthony Hecht
Prais'd be Diana's Fair and Harmless Light
© Ralegh Sir Walter
Prais'd be Diana's fair and harmless light;Prais'd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night;Prais'd be her power by which all powers abound.
A Word From a Petitioner
© Pierpont John
What! our petitions spurned! The prayerOf thousands, -- tens of thousands, -- castUnheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!But ye will hear us, first or last
The Palace-Burner
© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
She has been burning palaces. ."To see The sparks look pretty in the wind?." Well, yes .-And something more. But women brave as she Leave much for cowards such as I to guess.
The Black Princess
© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan
I knew a Princess: she was old, Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a lookSuch as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a fairy book.
Quia Multum Amavit
© John Payne
Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes, all a-stare;The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest, The hands together prest,Tight holding something that the flood has spared, Nor even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untiedGently the knotted hands and laid it by her side
