Time poems
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Love's Ordeal
© George MacDonald
In a lovely garden walking
Two lovers went hand in hand;
Two wan, worn figures, talking
They sat in the flowery land.
The Dying Child
© John Clare
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
Song IX. - The fatal hours are wondrous near
© William Shenstone
The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.
The Poet in the Nursery
© Robert Graves
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
In a dim library, just behind the chair
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling
A song about some Lovers at a Fair,
Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
That rhymes were beastly things and never there.
The City Clocks
© Padraic Colum
THE City clocks point out the hours
They look like moons on their darkened towers-
Mr. Philosopher
© Robert Graves
Old Mr. Philosopher
Comes for Ben and Claire,
An ugly man, a tall man,
With bright-red hair.
The Shivering Beggar
© Robert Graves
NEAR Clapham village, where fields began,
Saint Edward met a beggar man.
It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled,
The old man trembled for the fierce cold.
A Song Before Sailing
© Bliss William Carman
I call from room to room
Through the deserted gloom;
The echoes are all words I know,
Lost in some long ago.
The Negro's Friend
© Claude McKay
There is no radical the Negro's friend
Who points some other than the classic road
The Last Post
© Robert Graves
The bugler sent a call of high romance
Lights out! Lights out! to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
God, if its this for me next time in France
What Is Fancy?
© Charles Lamb
SISTER.
I am to write three lines, and you
Three others that will rhyme.
There-now I've done my task.
In Memoriam
© Henry Van Dyke
The record of a faith sublime,
And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned;
The Bough of Nonsense
© Robert Graves
Where once a nonsense built her nest
With skulls and flowers and all things queer,
In an old boot, with patient breast
Hatching three eggs; and the next year
S. Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid
Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did.
The Cottage
© Robert Graves
Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;
To Robert Nichols
© Robert Graves
(From Frise on the Somme in February, 1917, in answer to a letter saying: I am just finishing my Fauns Holiday. I wish you were here to feed him with cherries.)
Here by a snowbound river
In scrapen holes we shiver,
And like old bitterns we
The Next War
© Robert Graves
You young friskies who today
Jump and fight in Fathers hay
With bows and arrows and wooden spears,
Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers,
Cherry-Time
© Robert Graves
Cherries of the night are riper
Than the cherries pluckt at noon
Gather to your fairy piper
When he pipes his magic tune:
Post Mortem
© Robinson Jeffers
Happy people die whole, they are all dissolved in a moment,
they have had what they wanted,
Antara
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Though thou thy fair face concealest still in thy veil from me,
yet am I he that hath captured horse--riders how many!
Give me the praise of my fair deeds. Lady, thou knowest it,
kindly am I and forbearing, save when wrong presseth me.
Only when evil assaileth, deal I with bitterness;
then am I cruel in vengeance, bitter as colocynth.
The Chimney-Sweeps Of Cheltenham
© Alfred Noyes
When hawthorn buds are creaming white,
And the red foolscap all stuck with may,
Then lasses walk with eyes alight,
And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.
