Time poems
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Peter Rugg the Bostonian
© Louise Imogen Guiney
The mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.
Parting
© Frances Anne Kemble
The golden hinges of the year have turned
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
I Am Here, And You
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I am here, and you;
The sun blesses us through
Leaves made of light.
The air is in your hair;
You hold a flower.
From: A Poet's Hope
© William Ellery Channing
Lady, there is a hope that all men have,
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place
To rest in, and a flower-strewn, gentle grave;
Another hope which purifies our race,
That when that fearful bourn forever past,
They may find rest, - and rest so long to last.
Felix Opportunitate Mortis
© Alfred Austin
Exile or Caesar? Death hath solved thy doubt,
And made thee certain of thy changeless fate;
The Quaker Alumni
© John Greenleaf Whittier
From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine,
Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again;
And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool,
Play over the old game of going to school.
Slumberland Time
© Edgar Albert Guest
IT is Slumberland time, and the storms have passed by,
And the sea is now golden and still,
Advent Of Spring
© Du Fu
The city has fallen: only the hills and rivers remain.
In Spring the streets were green with grass and trees.
The Wife
© Lesbia Harford
He's out of work!
I tell myself a change should mean a chance,
And he must look for changes to advance,
And he, of all men, really needs a jerk.
Waitin' Fer The Cat To Die
© James Whitcomb Riley
Lawzy! don't I rickollect
That-'air old swing in the lane!
To the Moon [Late Version]
© Charles Harpur
With musing mind I watch thee steal
Above those envious clouds that hid
Tis Hard
© Augusta Davies Webster
'Tis hard. We are young still but more content;
'Tis our ripe flush, the heyday of our prime;
We learn full breath, how rich of the air we are!
But suddenly we note a touch of time,
A little fleck that scarcely seems to mar;
And we know then that some time since youth went.
The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
© John Keats
At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,--
The Columbiad: Book V
© Joel Barlow
Sage Franklin next arose with cheerful mien,
And smiled unruffled o'er the solemn scene;
His locks of age a various wreath embraced,
Palm of all arts that e'er a mortal graced;
Beneath him lay the sceptre kings had borne,
And the tame thunder from the tempest torn.
Ah! Sunflower
© William Blake
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;
Recollections Of Cornwall
© Robert Laurence Binyon
To R. G. R. and H. P. P.
Let not the mind, that would have peace,
Too much repose on former joy,
Nor in pourtraying past delight
Her needed, active power employ!
Nemesis
© Henry Lawson
It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.
