Power poems
/ page 83 of 324 /
The Garden of Sin
© Robert Fuller Murray
I know the garden-close of sin,
The cloying fruits, the noxious flowers,
I long have roamed the walks and bowers,
Desiring what no man shall win:
Lines Written Under The Conviction That It Is Not Wise To Read Mathematics In November After Ones F
© James Clerk Maxwell
In the sad November time,
When the leaf has left the lime,
The Papal Benediction, From St. Peters
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Higher than ever lifted into space,
Rises the sove'ran dome,--
Into the Colonnade's immense embrace
Flows all the life of Rome;
To Sergei Esenin
© Vladimir Mayakovsky
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness...
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.
Accolon Of Gaul: Part IV
© Madison Julius Cawein
Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,
The World Is Too Much With Us
© William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
The True Heaven
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE bliss for which our spirits pine,
That bliss we feel shall yet be given,
Somehow, in some far realm divine,
Some marvellous state we call a heaven.
From the Persian of Hafiz I
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
Butler, fetch the ruby wine,
Which with sudden greatness fills us;
Winstanley
© Jean Ingelow
Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes,
“Water-grass, you know not what I do;
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes.
And—I know not you.”
Woman
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
LADY, although we have not met,
And may not meet, beneath the sky;
And whether thine are eyes of jet,
Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
Or hazelheaven knows, not I;
To a Maniac
© Amelia Opie
There was a time, poor phrensied maid,
When I could o'er thy grief have mourned,
And still with tears the tale repaid
Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.
A Message Of Jeff Davis In Secret Session
© James Russell Lowell
I sent you a messige, my friens, t'other day,
To tell you I'd nothin' pertickler to say:
A Tombless Epitaph
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
Masking his birth-name, wont to character
To Perdita, Singing
© James Russell Lowell
Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in sunshine bright,
And I never weary counting
Its clear droppings, lone and single,
Or when in one full gush they mingle,
Shooting in melodious light.
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto I.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Preludes.
I The Impossibility
Genesis BK XVI
© Caedmon
(ll. 918-924) And unto Eve God spake in wrath: "Turn thee from
joy! Thou shalt live under man's dominion, sore smitten with
fear before him. With bitter sorrow shalt thou expiate thy sin,
waiting for death, bringing forth sons and daughters in the world
with grief and tears and lamentation."
Don Juan: Canto The Twelfth
© George Gordon Byron
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
On The Group Of The Three Angels Before The Tent Of Abraham, By Raffaelle, In The Vatican
© Washington Allston
O, now I feel as though another sense,
From heaven descending, had informed my soul;
Ode To Joy
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
Chorus.
Be embracd, ye millions yonder!
Take this kiss throughout the world!
Brothersoer the stars unfurld
Must reside a loving Father.}
