Poems begining by W
/ page 25 of 113 /
Woman To Child
© Judith Wright
You who were darkness warmed my flesh
where out of darkness rose the seed.
Then all a world I made in me;
all the world you hear and see
hung upon my dreaming blood.
Whitsunday
© John Keble
When God of old came down from Heaven,
In power and wrath He came;
Before His feet the clouds were riven,
Half darkness and half flame:
Widows
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
When I was Young and Ignorant
© Patrick Barrington
When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall,
Our days were spent in happiness, although our means were frugal;
What Is Love?
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
What is Love?
Is it a folly,
Is it mirth, or melancholy?
Joys above,
Are there many, or not any?
What is Love?
Winter Evening
© Alexander Pushkin
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Wholl Wear the Beaten Colours?
© Henry Lawson
WHOLL WEAR the beaten coloursand cheer the beaten men?
Wholl wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again?
Where sullen crowds are densest, and fickle as the sea,
Wholl wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me?
Written After Spending A Day At West Point
© Frances Anne Kemble
Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
What Little Things!
© Madison Julius Cawein
What little things are those
That hold our happiness!
A smile, a glance, a rose
Dropped from her hair or dress;
A word, a look, a touch,-
These are so much, so much.
When I would Imagine
© George Meredith
When I would image her features,
Comes up a shrouded head:
I touch the outlines, shrinking;
She seems of the wandering dead.
Wind In The Valley
© Arthur Symons
All the valley fills with wind
As a rock-pool with the tide;
And the tumult, clashed and dinned,
Floods like waters far and wide.
When Horace "Came Back"
© Franklin Pierce Adams
When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,
And you my embraceable she,
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians
Had nothing on me.
Written For My Son, In A Bible Which Was Presented To Him.
© Mary Barber
Welcome, thou sacred, solemn Guest,
Who com'st to guide me to the Blest.
O Fountain of eternal Truth,
Thou gracious Guardian of my Youth!
When the French Band Plays
© Anonymous
THERE'S a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons,
In a certain nameless city's quaint old square.
With Deaths' Prophetic Ear
© Frank Dalby Davison
Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast,
For a moment let the warning bugles cease;
Winstanley
© Jean Ingelow
Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes,
“Water-grass, you know not what I do;
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes.
And—I know not you.”
Woman
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
LADY, although we have not met,
And may not meet, beneath the sky;
And whether thine are eyes of jet,
Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
Or hazelheaven knows, not I;
When The Duke of Clarence Died
© Henry Lawson
LET US sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelledtoadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Princes deaththey lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
