Poems begining by S
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Say Me, Viit in the Brom
© Anonymous
Say me, viit in the brom,Teche me wou I sule donThat min hosebondeMe louien wolde.
Sonnet LIX.
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Written Sept. 1791, during a remarkable thunder
storm, in which the moon was perfectly clear, while
the tempest gathered in various directions near the
earth.
Shlatherys Mounted Fut
© William Percy French
An' down from the mountains came the squadrons an' platoons,
Four-an'-twinty fightin' min, an' a couple o' sthout gossoons,
An' whin we marched behind the band to patriotic tunes,
We felt that fame would gild the name o' Shlathery's Light Dhragoons.
Songs Of The Season
© Alexander Bathgate
Bird in thy mossy nest
Cosily hid,
Bird in thy mossy nest
Young leaves amid;
Sir Roland
© Andrew Lang
Whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir
He tirled at the pin,
And sae ready was his fair fause luve
To rise and let him in.
Shadows of His Lady
© Jacques Tahureau
What Parian marble that is loveliest,
Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast?
When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade?
Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,
Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be
The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
Sonnet XXVIII. Past Sorrows.
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
As tangled driftwood barring up a stream
Against our struggling oars when hope is high
To reach some fair green island we descry
Lying beyond us in the morning's gleam,
Speak
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Obscured the sun, the world is dark;
Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
Send down thy spark.
Scandal
© John Clare
She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes
To hear the news and tell the news she knows;
Sonnet IV. To The River Otter
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Stonewall Jackson
© Herman Melville
Mortally Wounded at Chancellorsville
The Man who fiercest charged in fight,
Sonnet. "What is my lady like? thou fain wouldst know"
© Frances Anne Kemble
What is my lady like? thou fain wouldst know
A rosy chaplet of fresh apple bloom,
Sonnet XXXVII.
© Charlotte Turner Smith
SENT TO THE HON. MRS. O'NEILL, WITH
PAINTED FLOWERS.
The poet's fancy takes from Flora's realm
Her buds and leaves to dress fictitious powers,
Sonnets LVI:LVII: LVIII: True Woman
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I. HERSELF
To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;
Self-Interogation
© Emily Jane Brontë
"The evening passes fast away.
'Tis almost time to rest;
What thoughts has left the vanished day,
What feelings in thy breast?
