Smile poems

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Pretence. Part II - The Library

© John Kenyon

From such a world, all touch, all ear, all eye,
What marvel, then, if proud Abstraction fly;
Amid Hercynian shades pursue his theme,
And leave the land of Locke to gold and steam?

Girl At Her Devotions. By Newton

© Letitia Elizabeth Landon

SHE was just risen from her bended knee,

But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;

The Lament For Shuil Donalds Daughter

© Caroline Norton

I.
IN old Shuil Donald's cottage there are many voices weeping,
And stifled sobs, and murmurings of sorrow wild and vain,
For the old man's cherish'd blessing on her bed of death lies sleeping,--

I Am With Terrorism

© Nizar Qabbani

We are accused of terrorism:
if we wrote about the ruins of a homeland
torn, weak...
a homeland with no address
and an nation with no names

Joney

© James Whitcomb Riley

Had a hare-lip-- Joney had:

Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it:

Ghost of the beautiful past, of the days long gone, of a queen, of a fair sweet woman.
Ghost with the passionate eyes, how proud, yet not too proud to have wept, to have loved, since to love is human.
Angel in fair white garments, with skirts of lawn, by the autumn wind on the pathway fluttered,
Always close by the castle wall and about to speak. But the whisper dies on her lips unuttered.

Dramatic Fragment

© Henry Timrod

Let the boy have his will! I tell thee, brother,

We treat these little ones too much like flowers,

The Escape

© Gilbert Keith Chesterton

We watched you building, stone by stone,

The well-washed cells and well-washed graves

The Red Zouave

© Anonymous

The stars were bright, the breeze was still,
The cicada and the whippoorwill,
Alone disturbed the scene;
A streamlet down the dark ravine,
Hasted the gloomy spot to shun,
And bear its little tribute to Cub Run.

I Chide Not At The Seasons

© Alfred Austin

I chide not at the seasons, for if Spring

With backward look refuses to be fair,

A Glee

© Thomas Love Peacock

Quickly pass the social glass,

Hence with idle sorrow!

The Task : Complete

© William Cowper

In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.