Poems begining by S
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Sunset
© Archibald Lampman
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
Sonnet 85: I See The House
© Sir Philip Sidney
I see the house; my heart thyself contain,
Beware full sails drown not thy tott'ring barge,
Lest joy, by nature apt sprites to enlarge,
Thee to ty wrack beyond thy limits strain.
Soldierly
© Edgar Albert Guest
The glory of a soldierand a soldier's not a saint
Is the way he does his duty without grumbling or complaint;
His work's not always pleasant, but he does it rain or shine,
And he grabs a bit of glory when he's fighting in the line;
But the lesson that he teaches every day to me an' you
Is the way to do a duty that we do not like to do.
Song.
© Richard Lovelace
I.
In mine one monument I lye,
And in my self am buried;
Sure, the quick lightning of her eye
Sonnet XCI: Lost On Both Sides
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
As when two men have loved a woman well,
Each hating each, through Love's and Death's deceit;
Song Of The Sirens
© Arthur Symons
Our breasts are cold, salt are our kisses,
Your blood shall whiten in our sea-blisses;
Slow and Reluctant Was the Long Descent
© George Santayana
Slow and reluctant was the long descent,
With many farewell pious looks behind,
Sport In The Meadows
© John Clare
Maytime is to the meadows coming in,
And cowslip peeps have gotten eer so big,
Skin Diving
© William Matthews
The snorkel is the easiest woodwind.
Two notes in the chalumeau:
rising and falling.
Here is the skin of sleep,
the skin of reading, surfaces
Sonnet LXV. To Dr. Parry Of Bath
© Charlotte Turner Smith
With some botanic drawings which had been made
some years.
IN happier hours, ere yet so keenly blew
Adversity's cold blight, and bitter storms,
St. Michael The Weigher
© James Russell Lowell
Marvel through my pulses ran
Seeing then the beam divine
Swiftly on this hand decline,
While Earth's splendor and renown
Mounted light as thistle-down.
Summer Is Ended
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bliss,
If we wait till the close?
Seasonal Cycle - Chapter 02 - Rainy Season
© Kalidasa
"Oh, dear, now the kingly monsoon is onset with its clouds containing raindrops, as its ruttish elephants in its convoy, and with skyey flashes of lighting as its pennants and buntings, and with the thunders of thunderbolts as its percussive drumbeats, thus this rainy season has come to pass, radiately shining forth like a king, for the delight of voluptuous people…
"By far, the vault of heaven is overly impregnated with massive clouds, that are similar to the gleam of blackish petals of black-costuses… somewhere they are similar to the glitter of the heaps of well-kneaded blackish mascara… and elsewhere they glisten like the blackened nipples of bosoms of pregnant women, ready to rain the elixir of life on the lips of her offspring, when that offspring is actualised…
Songs Set To Music: 9. Set By Mr. De Fesch
© Matthew Prior
Is it, O love, thy want of eyes,
Or by the Fates decreed,
That hearts so seldom sympathise,
Or for each other bleed?
Sonnets to the Sundry Notes of Music
© William Shakespeare
I.
IT was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fair'st that eye could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.
Spring
© Andrew Lang
Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,
That my Love's feet may tread it down,
Like lilies on the lilies set:
My Love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are,
And sweeter than the violet!
Solitude
© Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Is someone there, oh weeping heart? No, no one there.
Perhaps a traveler, but he will be on his way.
Swallows
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
O LITTLE hearts, beat home, beat home,
Here is no place to rest.
Night darkens on the falling foam
And on the fading west.
O little wings, beat home, beat home.
Love may no longer roam.
Sonnet XLI. George Ripley
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
WARM, generous and young in heart and brain,
A wise, ripe scholar of the antique mould,
Had he but chosen he might have enrolled
His name among philosophers who gain
Sister Jones's Confession
© James Whitcomb Riley
I thought the deacon liked me, yit
I warn't adzackly shore of it--
