Poems begining by S

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Song To Celia - I

© Benjamin Jonson

Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.

BRAVE the anger of the wealthy! Scorn their bitter lying spite!
Tell the Truth in simple language, when you know that you are right!
And theyll read it by the slush-lamps in the station huts at night,

Sanity

© Claire Nixon

Ive held you all these years,
supporting you through all.
I plead for your hand just this once,
then I realise I was always alone,

Sans Souci

© William Schwenck Gilbert

I cannot tell what this love may be

That cometh to all but not to me.

Sonnet X "Were I the Poet-Laureate of the Fairies"

© Henry Timrod

(Written on a very small sheet of note-paper)

Song

© Matthew Prior

How old may Phyllis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task;
For she has really two ages.

Sunday up the River

© James Thomson

MY love o'er the water bends dreaming;
It glideth and glideth away:
She sees there her own beauty, gleaming
Through shadow and ripple and spray.

Sonnet XIV on A Noble Child, Early Dead

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Farewell to thee, thou swift--departed Stranger,
Weary with little stay,--farewell to thee!
There hung a picture in thy nursery
Of the God--boy, who slumbered in the manger,--

Summer Winds

© John Clare

The wind waves oer the meadows green

And shakes my own wild flowers

Samson And Delilah

© Edgar Lee Masters

Because thou wast most delicate,
A woman fair for men to see,
The earth did compass thy estate,
Thou didst hold life and death in fee,
And every soul did bend the knee.

St. Francis and the Birds

© Katharine Tynan

Little sisters, the birds:
We must praise God, you and I
You, with songs that fill the sky,
I, with halting words.

Sheep and Lambs

© Katharine Tynan

All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.

Summer Sadness

The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair,
Melting the incense on your hostile features,
Mixing an amorous liquid with the tears.

Spring in Town

The country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses--showers and sunshine bring,
Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing-birds come back.