Sad poems
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To My Sister,
© John Greenleaf Whittier
WITH A COPY OF "THE SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND."
Dear Sister! while the wise and sage
The Courtship Of Miles Standish
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed I do not condemn you;
Stouter hearts that a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter.
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on;
So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!"
The Purgatory Of St. Patrick - Act III
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
LUIS. Oh, that name
Do not mention! do not kill me
By repeating what doth thrill me
To the centre of my frame
As with lightning. Yes, I know
That at length Polonia died.
Tristram Of The Wood
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
ONCE, when the autumn fields were dim and wet,
The trumpets rang; the tide of battle set
Toward gray Broceliande, by the western sea.
The Exiles. 1660
© John Greenleaf Whittier
The goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.
The Fountain
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Traveller! on thy journey toiling
By the swift Powow,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heated brow,
Listen, while all else is still,
To the brooklet from the hill.
Late October
© Madison Julius Cawein
Ah, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes,
What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold,
Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods,
And to your pride anointed empire sold
For wan traditioned death, whose misty moods
Shake each huge throne of quarried shadows cold?
The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 10
© William Langland
Thanne hadde Wit a wif, was hote Dame Studie,
That lene was of lere and of liche bothe.
Written In Juice Of Lemon
© Abraham Cowley
Whilst what I write I do not see,
I dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry.
Ah, foolish Muse! which dost so high aspire,
And know'st her judgment well,
How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the fire.
The Path Of Life
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
So along the path we wanderedoh! the bliss of those short hours!
Youth and Hope and Joy together 'mid the everblooming flowers
That on life's smooth path were glowing soft beneath my naked feet,
Till I envied nought in Heaven, thinking here my lot complete.
Blessed Are The Dead. (From The German)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!
Who, through death, have unto God ascended!
Ye have arisen
From the cares which keep us still in prison.
The Flowers Of Finae
© Thomas Osborne Davis
Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,
A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.
The Song of the Surf
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
WHITE steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar
On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathoms length from the shore,
A Poem Sacred to the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton
© James Thomson
And what new wonders can ye show your guest!
Who, while on this dim spot, where mortals toil
Clouded in dust, from motion's simple laws,
Could trace the secret hand of Providence,
Wide-working through this universal frame.
Nonsuited.
© James Brunton Stephens
"DEAR RICHARD, come at once;" so ran her letter;
The letter of a married female friend:
The Cathedral
© James Russell Lowell
Far through the memory shines a happy day,
Cloudless of care, down-shod to every sense,
Italy : 4. The Great St. Bernard
© Samuel Rogers
Night was again descending, when my mule,
That all day long had climbed among the clouds,
Higher and higher still, as by a stair
Let down from heaven itself, transporting me,
The Maid of Gerringong
© Henry Kendall
Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast,
With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past,
