Time poems
/ page 348 of 792 /
307. Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson
© Robert Burns
Go to your sculpturd tombs, ye Great,
In a the tinsel trash o state!
But by thy honest turf Ill wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellows fate
Eer lay in earth.
177. Elegy on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair
© Robert Burns
THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th inconstant blast howld thro the darkning air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
446. A Vision
© Robert Burns
AS I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the waflower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
Sonnet XIV. From Petrarch
© Charlotte Turner Smith
LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,
Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs;
And though averted now, her charming eyes
Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd,
Time And Memory
© Arthur Symons
Shall I be wroth with Time, that has no stay,
And even dreams brings to a mortal end,
Because my soul to mortal things would lend
Her restless immortality away?
350. Epistle to John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughty
© Robert Burns
Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the deil, he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,
While Burns they ca me.
Hospital Duties
© Anonymous
Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels today,
202. On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Arniston
© Robert Burns
LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst oer the distant plains;
426. SongBy Allan Stream
© Robert Burns
BY Allan stream I chancd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds are whispering thro the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
Life and Death
© Charles Harpur
Yet not for horror, nor to weep;
But through the solemn dark to see
That life, though swift, is wonder-deep,
And death the only key
That lets to that mysterious height
Where earth and heaven in God unite.
382. SongIll meet thee on the Lea Rig
© Robert Burns
WHEN oer the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrowd field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
104. The Lament
© Robert Burns
O THOU pale orb that silent shines
While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.
And wanders here to wail and weep!
Burnss Statue At Irvine
© Alfred Austin
Yes! let His place be there!
Where the lone moorland gazes on the sea,
Not in the squalid street nor pompous square:
So that he again may be
From contamination free,
His pedestal the plain, his canopy the air!
488. SongThe Winter of Life
© Robert Burns
BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoicd the day,
Thro gentle showers, the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:
Sleep Teases A Man
© Daniil Ivanovich Kharms
Markov took off his boots and, with a deep breath, lay down on the divan.
He felt sleepy but, as soon as he closed his eyes, the desire for sleep immediately passed. Markov opened his eyes and stretched out his hand for a book. But sleep again came over him and, not even reaching the book, Markov lay down and once more closed his eyes. But, the moment his eyes closed, sleepiness left him again and his consciousness became so clear that Markov could solve in his head algebraical problems involving equations with two unknown quantities.
Markov was tormented for quite some time, not knowing what to do: should he sleep or should he liven himself up? Finally, exhausted and thoroughly sick of himself and his room, Markov put on his coat and hat, took his walking cane and went out on to the street. The fresh breeze calmed Makarov down, he became rather more at one with himself and felt like going back home to his room.
Upon going into his room, he experienced an agreeable bodily fatigue and felt like sleeping. But, as soon as he lay down on the divan and closed his eyes, his sleepiness instantly evaporated.
The March O' Man
© Edgar Albert Guest
Down to work o' mornings, an' back to home at nights,
Down to hours o' labor, an' home to sweet delights;
Down to care an' trouble, an' home to love an' rest,
With every day a good one, an' every evening blest.
The Boys
© James Whitcomb Riley
Where are they?--the friends of my childhood enchanted--
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?
