Time poems
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Monsieur Joliat
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
Boston she have good hockey team; Dose Senators ess nice.But Les Canadiens ees bes' Dat ever skate de ice.
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
Dat Leetle Box
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
I leev' me turty year alone; Dat ees a lonely life--A bachelor, dat's wat dey call De man who has no wife.
John-John
© MacDonagh Thomas
I dreamt last night of you, John-John, And thought you called to me;And when I woke this morning, John, Yourself I hoped to see;But I was all alone, John-John, Though still I heard your call:I put my boots and bonnet on, And took my Sunday shawl,And went, full sure to find you, John, To Nenagh fair
Praise, my Soul, the King of Heaven (Psalm 103)
© Henry Francis Lyte
Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven;To His feet Thy tribute bring!Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven,Who like me His praise should sing?Praise Him! praise Him!Praise the everlasting King!
Old Friends
© Linton William James
The old old friends!Some changed; some buried; some gone out of sight;Some enemies, and in this world's swift fight No time to make amends.
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
Portable Demons
© Leggat Alexandra
I found the ghost of Dorothy Parkerin an old movie house in Times SquareI approached her with condolencesand slowly coerced her out of there
Swan
© David Herbert Lawrence
Far-offat the core of spaceat the quickof timebeatsand goes stillthe great swan upon the waters of all endingsthe swan within vast chaos, within the electron.
People
© David Herbert Lawrence
The great gold apples of nightHang from the street's long bough Dripping their lightOn the faces that drift below,On the faces that drift and blowDown the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough
Man and Bat
© David Herbert Lawrence
When I went into my room, at mid-morning,Say ten o'clock ...My room, a crash-box over that great stone rattleThe Via de' Bardi ....
Salve Deus Rex Iudæorum
© Lanyer Æmilia
Now Pontius Pilate is to judge the CauseOf faultlesse Jesus, who before him stands;Who neither hath offended Prince, nor Lawes,Although he now be brought in woefull bands:O noble Governour, make thou yet a pause,Doe not in innocent blood imbrue thy hands; But heare the words of thy most worthy wife, Who sends to thee, to beg her Sauiours life
To Correspondents
© Andrew Lang
MY postman, though I fear thy tread, And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread, My mortal foe is much severer --The unknown correspondent, who, With indefatigable pen,And nothing in the world to do, Perplexes literary men
Off my Game
© Andrew Lang
'I'M off my game,' the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe;'My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go;Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, Results are still the same,I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand -- I'm off my game!
'Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie,That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me!Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name,Old partners shun me when we meet -- I'm off my game!
'Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind meHow once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it -- behind me
April
© Andrew Lang
April, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days,April, bringing hope of prime,To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;
