Time poems

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O little, whisp'ring, murm'ring shell, say cans't thou tell to me
Good news of any stately ship that sails upon the sea?
I press my ear, O little shell, against thy rosy lips;
Cans't tell me tales of those who go down to the sea in ships?

Dust

© Carl Sandburg

Here is dust remembers it was a rose
one time and lay in a woman's hair.
Here is dust remembers it was a woman
one time and in her hair lay a rose.
Oh things one time dust, what else now is it
you dream and remember of old days?

Margrave

© Robinson Jeffers

But who is our judge? It is likely the enormous
Beauty of the world requires for completion our ghostly increment,
It has to dream, and dream badly, a moment of its night.

Child's Talk In April

© Christina Georgina Rossetti

I wish you were a pleasant wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
We'd rise and go to bed at eight
Or it may be not quite so late.

Svend Vonved

© George Borrow

Svend Vonved sits in his lonely bower;
He strikes his harp with a hand of power;
His harp return'd a responsive din;
Then came his mother hurrying in:
Look out, look out, Svend Vonved.

Ode On A Nearer Prospect Of Summer Hill

© Richard Harris Barham

O Summer Hill! if thou wert mine,

I'd order in a pipe of wine,

Before, Behind, And Beyond

© Alfred Austin

O the sunny days before us, before us, before us,

When all was bright

Almer Mater

© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch

Know you her secret none can utter?

Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?

Introduction: Pippa Passes

© Robert Browning

Now wait!-even I already seem to share
In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?
What other meaning do these verses bear?

The Princess (part 1)

© Alfred Tennyson

A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face,
Of temper amorous, as the first of May,
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl,
For on my cradle shone the Northern star.

The Old Player

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

THE curtain rose; in thunders long and loud

The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed.

The Snows Of Spring

O wailing gust, what hast thou brought with thee,
What sting of desolation? But an hour,
And brave was every shy new--opened flower
Smiling in sun beneath a budding tree.

The Golden Game

If ever there was a Golden Game

To brace the nerves, to cure repining,

The Great Grandfather

© Charles Lamb

My father's grandfather lives still,
His age is fourscore years and ten;
He looks a monument of time,
The agedest of aged men.

Old Father Time, one day
In his study, so they say,
Was indulging in a surreptitious nap,
When from his drowsy dreams
He was wakened, as it seems,
By a timid but persistent little rap.