Poems begining by S
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Salute To The Trees
© Henry Van Dyke
Many a tree is found in the wood
And every tree for its use is good:
Sick Room
© Langston Hughes
How quiet
It is in this sick room
Where on the bed
A silent woman lies between two lovers-
Life and Death,
And all three covered with a sheet of pain.
Songs with Preludes: Regret
© Jean Ingelow
O that word REGRET!
There have been nights and morns when we have sighed,
Sans Parents, Sans Amis
© André Marie de Chénier
Sans parents, sans amis et sans concitoyens,
Oublié sur la terre et loin de tous les miens,
Sonnet 70: My Muse May well Grudge
© Sir Philip Sidney
My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy,
If still I force her in sad rimes to creep:
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep.
Scotch Stuff
© George Ade
Scotch stuff has come to stay,
Now the burr drives out the brogue;
Here in the U. S. A.
The " hoot mon " is in vogue.
Hail to the canny Scot,
He'll get what's to be got.
Songs Of A Country Home
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Who has not felt his heart leap up, and glow
What time the tulips first begin to blow,
Has one sweet joy, still left for him to know.
Snow Falling Through Fog
© William Matthews
This is how we used to imagine
the ocean floor: a steady snow of dead
diatoms and forams drifting
higher in the sunken plains, a soggy
dust on the climbing underwater
peaks. But such a weather
Sorrows Importunity
© Alfred Austin
When Sorrow first came wailing to my door,
April rehearsed the madrigal of May;
And, as I ne'er had seen her face before,
I kept on singing, and she went her way.
Sunrise
© Frederick George Scott
O rising Sun, so fair and gay,
What are you bringing me, I pray,
Of sorrow or of joy to-day?
Sid Hamets Rod
© Jonathan Swift
Poor Hall, renown'd for comely hair,
Whose hands, perhaps, were not so fair,
Yet had a Jezebel as near;
Hall, of small scripture conversation,
"Sigh On, Sad Heart, for Love's Eclipse"
© Thomas Hood
Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse
And Beauty's fairest queen,
Though 'tis not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between:
Sonnet. "Thou art to me like one, who in a dream"
© Frances Anne Kemble
Thou art to me like one, who in a dream
Of pleasant fancies is borne sleeping by
Song III
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
O! YOUR eyes are deep and tender,
O! your charmèd voice is low,
But I've found your beauty's splendor
All a mockery and a show;
Street Circus
© Alexander Blok
Suddenly the clown twists in the lights
Screaming, «Please help me! Please help!
I am bleeding red cranberry juice!
I have bandages made of rags!
I have a paper helmet on my head!
Ive a wooden sword in my hand!»
