Sports poems
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Astrophel and Stella
© Sir Philip Sidney
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes entendeth,
Which now my breast, surcharg'd, to musick lendeth!
To you, to you, all song of praise is due,
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
30. Song-Composed in August
© Robert Burns
NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The Prelude: Book 1: Childhood and School-time
© William Wordsworth
--Was it for thisThat one, the fairest of all Rivers, lov'dTo blend his murmurs with my Nurse's song,And from his alder shades and rocky falls,And from his fords and shallows, sent a voiceThat flow'd along my dreams? For this, didst Thou,O Derwent! travelling over the green PlainsNear my 'sweet Birthplace', didst thou, beauteous StreamMake ceaseless music through the night and dayWhich with its steady cadence, temperingOur human waywardness, compos'd my thoughtsTo more than infant softness, giving me,Among the fretful dwellings of mankind,A knowledge, a dim earnest, of the calmThat Nature breathes among the hills and groves
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII [all 133 poems]
© Alfred Tennyson
[Preface] Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace,Believing where we cannot prove;
Astrophel and Stella: 53
© Sir Philip Sidney
In martiall sports I had my cunning tride,And yet to breake more staues did me addresse:While with the peoples shouts I must confesse,Youth, luck, and praise, euen fild my veines with prideWhen Cupid hauing me his slaue descride,In Marses liuery, prauncing in the presse:What now sir foole, said he, I would no lesse,Looke here, I say, I look'd and Stella spide
Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)
© John Milton
PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad successThe Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope,So oft, and the perswasive RhetoricThat sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve,So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve,This far his over-match, who self deceiv'dAnd rash, before-hand had no better weigh'dThe strength he was to cope with, or his own:But as a man who had been matchless heldIn cunning, over-reach't where least he thought,To salve his credit, and for very spightStill will be tempting him who foyls him still,And never cease, though to his shame the more;Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time,About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd,Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;Or surging waves against a solid rock,Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew,Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end;So Satan, whom repulse upon repulseMet ever; and to shameful silence brought,Yet gives not o're though desperate of success,And his vain importunity pursues
I Feel I'm Growing Old
© Mills David
I feel I'm growing old, Mary, My heart is full of care,Time makes his furrow on my brow, His snows are on my hair;The brook still murmurs in the glen, That drives the creaking mill,And though I take the upward way, I'm going down the hill
Why do I feel guilty in the lingerie department at The Bay
© Holbrook Susan
After all, I'm a woman, I'm old enough to look casual in here, I'm in my prime, in fact: why not try on a few things, discuss sizes and wires with the clerk like it's nothing, a bit of a chore even, like shopping for sneakers
Ye Wearie Wayfarer Hys Ballad. Fytte 5. Lex Talionis
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
And if there's blood upon his hand,'Tis but the blood of deer. -- 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 Leak in the Dike
© Cary Phoebe
The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day,And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play:"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see,To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me;And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet;You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set
