Time poems
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Saddest Poem
© Pablo Neruda
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
XIII. O Time! Who Know'st a Lenient Hand to Lay...
© William Lisle Bowles
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence,
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
Stealest the long-forgotten pang away;
I. Written at Tinemouth, Northumberland, after a Tempestuous Voyage
© William Lisle Bowles
AS slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide,
Rouen: Place De La Pucelle
© Maria White Lowell
Here blooms the legend fed with time and chance,
Fresh as the morning, though in centuries old;
The whitest lily in the shield of France,
With heart of virgin gold.
Castles In Spain. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How much of my young heart, O Spain,
Went out to thee in days of yore!
What dreams romantic filled my brain,
And summoned back to life again
The Paladins of Charlemagne,
The Cid Campeador!
II. Written at Bamborough Castle.
© William Lisle Bowles
YE holy tow'rs, that crown the azure deep,
Still may ye shade the wave-worn rock sublime,
Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time
Assail you, and the winter Whirlwind's sweep!
Vision Of Columbus - Book 1
© Joel Barlow
Oh, lend thy friendly shroud to veil my sight,
That these pain'd eyes may dread no more the light,
These welcome shades conclude my instant doom,
And this drear mansion moulder to a tomb
Time and Grief
© William Lisle Bowles
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
Sonnet: July 18th 1787
© William Lisle Bowles
O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On a Beautiful Landscape
© William Lisle Bowles
Here is no tint of mortal change--the day
Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy
Gambol with look, and almost bark, of joy--
Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay.
Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach
Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.
In Youth
© William Lisle Bowles
Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace
Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair,
That brow untouched by one faint line of care,
To mar its openness, we seem to trace
Elegy For My Father
© Annie Finch
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seals wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.
Hart Crane, Voyages
The First Meeting
© Robert Fuller Murray
Last night for the first time, O Heart's Delight,
I held your hand a moment in my own,
The dearest moment which my soul has known,
Since I beheld and loved you at first sight.
A Part of an Ode
© Benjamin Jonson
to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
Wagner
© Rupert Brooke
Creeps in half wanton, half asleep,
One with a fat wide hairless face.
He likes love-music that is cheap;
Likes women in a crowded place;
And wants to hear the noise they're making.
The Missionary - Canto Third
© William Lisle Bowles
Come,--for the sun yet hangs above the bay,--
And whilst our time may brook a brief delay
The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad
© Wallace Stevens
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
Reply to Comrade Guo Moruo 1963
© Mao Zedong
On this tiny globe
A few flies dash themselves against the wall,
Come, My Celia
© Benjamin Jonson
Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
To The Memory Of My Beloved, The Author, Mr William Shakespeare, And What He Hath Left Us
© Benjamin Jonson
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
