Time poems

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A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After The Revival Of Learning

© Robert Browning

Let us begin and carry up this corpse,

Singing together.

Sonnet C

© William Shakespeare

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

Sonnet 97: How like a winter hath my absence been

© William Shakespeare

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!

An Octopus

© Marianne Clarke Moore

of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,

it lies "in grandeur and in mass"

Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.

Hard Times Come Again No More

© Stephen C. Foster

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh, hard times come again no more.

The Kind Word

© Ada Cambridge

Speak kindly, wife; the little ones will grow

Fairest and straightest in the warmest sun.

Sonnet 77: Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear

© William Shakespeare

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.

Sonnet 76: Why is my verse so barren of new pride?

© William Shakespeare

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

© William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

At Moonrise And Onwards

© Thomas Hardy

I thought you a fire
On Heron-Plantation Hill,
Dealing out mischief the most dire
To the chattels of men of hire
There in their vill.

Sonnet 70: That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

Sonnet XII

THE DISDAINED LOVER.
I STAND beside the waves,--the mournful waves,--
Where thou didst stand in silence and in fear,
For thou wert train'd by custom's haughty slaves,