Time poems
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Moses In The Bulrushes. A Sacred Drama
© Hannah More
Hebrew Woman.
Jochebed, Mother of Moses.
Miriam, his Sister.
To His Noble Friend, Mr. Richard Lovelace, Upon His Poems
© Andrew Marvell
Sir,
Our times are much degenerate from those
Which your sweet muse with your fair fortune chose,
And as complexions alter with the climes,
." by William Shakespeare">Sonnet 108: "What's in the brain, that ink may character,..."
© William Shakespeare
What's in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
The Character Of Holland
© Andrew Marvell
Holland, that scarce deserves the name of Land,
As but th'Off-scouring of the Brittish Sand;
And so much Earth as was contributed
By English Pilots when they heav'd the Lead;
Upon Appleton House, to My Lord Fairfax
© Andrew Marvell
Within this sober Frame expect
Work of no Forrain Architect;
That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
And Forrests did to Pastures hew;
Young Love
© Andrew Marvell
Come little Infant, Love me now,
While thine unsuspected years
Clear thine aged Fathers brow
From cold Jealousie and Fears.
The Child Of The Islands - Winter
© Caroline Norton
I.
ERE the Night cometh! On how many graves
Rests, at this hour, their first cold winter's snow!
Wild o'er the earth the sleety tempest raves;
First Anniversary
© Andrew Marvell
Like the vain curlings of the watery maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise,
So Man, declining always, disappears
In the weak circles of increasing years;
And his short tumults of themselves compose,
While flowing Time above his head does close.
The Garden
© Andrew Marvell
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes;
And their uncessant Labours see
Crown'd from some single Herb or Tree,
To His Coy Mistress
© Andrew Marvell
Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness Lady were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson's Ossian
© William Wordsworth
OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off melodies,
The Killing Place
© Edgar Albert Guest
Were hiking along at a two-forty pace
We 're making life seem like a man-killing race,
With our nerves all on edge and our jaws firmly set
We go rushing along; with our brows lined with sweat
And our cheeks pale and drawn every minute we dash,
And the goal that we 're after is merely more cash.
Koening Of The River
© Derek Walcott
Koening knew now there was no one on the river.
Entering its brown mouth choking with lilies
and curtained with midges, Koenig poled the shallop
past the abandoned ferry and the ferry piles
Parang
© Derek Walcott
The falling of a fixed star.
Yound men does bring love to disgrace
With remorseful, regretful words,
When flesh upon flesh was the tune
Since the first cloud raise up to disclose
The breast of the naked moon.
The Saddhu Of Couva
© Derek Walcott
When sunset, a brass gong,
vibrate through Couva,
is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed,
like a white cattle bird growing more small
The Titmouse
© Walter de la Mare
If you would happy company win,
Dangle a palm-nut from a tree,
Idly in green to sway and spin,
Its snow-pulped kernel for bait; and see,
A nimble titmouse enter in.
The Star-Apple Kingdom
© Derek Walcott
There were still shards of an ancient pastoral
in those shires of the island where the cattle drank
their pools of shadow from an older sky,
surviving from when the landscape copied such objects as
Psalm 111 part 1
© Isaac Watts
Songs of immortal praise belong
To my almighty God;
He has my heart, and he my tongue,
To spread his name abroad.
Harry Pearce
© David Campbell
I sat beside the red stock route
and chewed a blade of bitter grass
and saw in mirage on the plain
a bullock wagon pass.
Old Harry Pearce was with his team.
"The flies are bad," I said to him.
