Time poems
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The Study
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YET in the darksome crypt I left so late,
Whose only altar is its rusted grate,âÂ
The Dark, Blue Sea
© George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
One O'Clock in the Morning
© Charles Baudelaire
At last! I am alone! Nothing can be heard but the rumbling of a few belated and weary cabs. For a few hours at least silence will be ours, if not sleep. At last! The tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and now there will be no one but myself to make me suffer.
At last! I am allowed to relax in a bath of darkness! First a double turn of the key in the lock. This turn of the key will, it seems to me, increase my solitude and strengthen the barricades that, for the moment, separate me from the world.
The Fiftieth Birthday Of Agassiz. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
The Bride Of The Nile - Act II
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Belkís. I cannot do these sums
So long before the date. In the meanwhile talk to me.
I want to be amused. Life will go drearily
If we are to be like this. Let us play at something--chess,
Or draughts, or dominoes. Ask me a thing to guess--
An intellectual game.
To the Queen at Oxford
© Henry King
Great Lady! That thus quite against our use,
We speak your welcome by an English Muse,
And in a vulgar tongue our zeales contrive,
Is to confess your large prerogative,
Swift's Pastoral
© Padraic Colum
ESTHER
I know the answer: 'tis ingenious.
I'm tired of your riddles, Doctor Swift.
In Camp (Camp-ey)
© Jibanananda Das
Here on the edge of the forest I pitched camp.
All night long in pleasant southern breezes
By the moon's light
I listen to the call of a doe in heat.
To whom is she calling?
Mater Christianorum, Ora Pro Nobis
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
In the hour of grief and sorrow,
When my heart is full of care,
Thy Will Be Done
© John Greenleaf Whittier
WE see not, know not; all our way
Is night, with Thee alone is day:
The Borough. Letter II: The Church
© George Crabbe
"WHAT is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;
The Games We Used To Play
© George Ade
I long and sigh for the days gone by,
I pine for the rustic charm
Of the dear old games, the queer old games
We played down on the farm.
Ode
© Benjamin Jonson
To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that Noble Pair, Sir Lucius
Cary and Sir Henry Morison.
Winifred Waters
© John Daniel Logan
WINIFRED WATERS, when I look on you now,
With the sweet peace of God on your beautiful brow
To my honoured Friend Mr. George Sandys
© Henry King
It is, Sir, a confest intrusion here
That I before your labours do appear,
Which no loud Herald need, that may proclaim
Or seek acceptance, but the Authors fame.
Cadyow Castle
© Sir Walter Scott
When princely Hamilton's abode
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,
The song went round, the goblet flow'd,,
And revel sped the laughing hours.
At Juliet's Tomb.
© Robert Crawford
This fair woman who is dead
(Sung so sweet of long ago)
Lies not in a mortal bed
Song has made her couch to grow
The Fan : A Poem. Book III.
© John Gay
Learn hence, ye wives; bid vain suspicion cease,
Lose not in sulien discontent your peace.
For when fierce love to jealousy ferments,
A thousand doubts and fears the soul invents,
No more the days in pleasing converse flow,
And nights no more their soft endearments know.
Julia, or the Convent of St. Claire
© Amelia Opie
Stranger, that massy, mouldering pile,
Whose ivied ruins load the ground,
Reechoed once to pious strains
By holy sisters breathed around.
