Sad poems
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The Girl behind the Man behind the Gun
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs
How they Brought the News to a Gent
© Linton William James
Bob Browning and Timothy Titcombe and MeHad to take him the news: I was boss of the three,For I strode a donkey, they stump'd
Les Roses de Sâdi
© Andrew Lang
This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.
Acon and Rhodope; or, Inconstancy
© Walter Savage Landor
The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve,Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'dFor festival, some reckless of attire
Shadow River: Muskoka
© Emily Pauline Johnson
A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies ;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
Radiolatry
© Guiterman Arthur
The worst of all idolators Are zealous radiolatersWho wreck the peace of erstwhile happy homes With drool of variometers, Detectors, galvanometers,Antennae, switches, batteries and ohms.
Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte I. By Wood and Wold
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Beneath the greenwood bough. -- W. Scott.
The Deserted Village, A Poem
© Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled
The Rising Village
© Oliver Goldsmith
Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the
A Scottish Welcome
© Galt John
And is it you, and are you come?Sit down, sit down in bye;Get up and pierce the bowie, Kate,This night we'll drink it dry.
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
© Edward Fitzgerald
IHas flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caughtThe Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
America
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
The Tropic of Capricorn someone hadleft on the seat beside me, somewhere betweenUtica and Albany;
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
