Time poems
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Shelley's Centenary
© William Watson
Within a narrow span of time,
Three princes of the realm of rhyme,
At height of youth or manhood's prime,
From earth took wing,
To join the fellowship sublime
Who, dead, yet sing.
The Old Cruiser
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Same old masts and sails and crew,
Tight and tough and as good as new.
Growth
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
I watched the glory of her childhood change,
Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew,
(Loved long ago in lily-time),
Become a maid, mysterious and strange,
With fair, pure eyes - dear eyes, but not the eyes I knew
Of old, in the olden time!
The Doubtful To-Morrow
© Edgar Albert Guest
Whenever I walk through God's Acres of Dead
I wonder how often the mute voices said:
"I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow
Or rise to a sacrifice splendid--to-morrow."
The Secret Draught of Wine
© Shams al-Din Hafiz
Like Hafiz, drain the goblet cheerfully
While minstrels touch the lute and sweetly sing,
For all that makes thy heart rejoice in thee
Hangs of Life's single, slender, silken string.
Cricket On The Hearth
© Norman Rowland Gale
When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick,
Continued
© George Meredith
How smiles he at a generation ranked
In gloomy noddings over life! They pass.
"The chalice was suspended in the air"
© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
The chalice was suspended in the air
Like the golden sun for a splendid moment.
Here only Greek should be heard:
To take the whole world in your hands, like a simple apple.
At One Again
© Jean Ingelow
Two angry men-in heat they sever,
And one goes home by a harvest field:-
"Hope's nought," quoth he, "and vain endeavor;
I said and say it, I will not yield!
Independence
© Charles Churchill
Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)
Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;
A Last Word
© Madison Julius Cawein
OH, for some cup of consummating might,
Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!
A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure
This sickness called existence! Oh to find
Pytheas
© Henry Kendall
Gaul whose keel in far, dim ages ploughed wan widths of polar sea
Gray old sailor of Massilia, who hath woven wreath for thee?
