War poems
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A Circular
© Thomas Hardy
As 'legal representative'
I read a missive not my own,
On new designs the senders give
For clothes, in tints as shown.
The Murdered Lover
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother,
Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it,
Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother,
Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.
The Ministers Daughter
© John Greenleaf Whittier
In the minister's morning sermon
He had told of the primal fall,
And how thenceforth the wrath of God
Rested on each and all.
In The House Of Idiedaily
© Bliss William Carman
OH, but life went gaily, gaily,
In the house of Idiedaily!
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;
To A Sleeping Child
© Thomas Hood
I
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die
A Message Of Jeff Davis In Secret Session
© James Russell Lowell
I sent you a messige, my friens, t'other day,
To tell you I'd nothin' pertickler to say:
The Visions Of Bellay
© Edmund Spenser
IT was the time, when rest soft sliding downe
From heauens hight into mens heauy eyes,
Martha And Mary
© John Newton
Martha her love and joy expressed
By care to entertain her guest;
While Mary sat to hear her Lord,
And could not bear to lose a word.
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto I.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Preludes.
I The Impossibility
Genesis BK XVI
© Caedmon
(ll. 918-924) And unto Eve God spake in wrath: "Turn thee from
joy! Thou shalt live under man's dominion, sore smitten with
fear before him. With bitter sorrow shalt thou expiate thy sin,
waiting for death, bringing forth sons and daughters in the world
with grief and tears and lamentation."
Don Juan: Canto The Twelfth
© George Gordon Byron
Of all the barbarous middle ages, that
Which is most barbarous is the middle age
How few are we. Probably three...
© Boris Pasternak
How few are we. Probably three
In all-coallike, burning, infernal
Beneath the grey bark of the tree
Of wisdom, and clouds, and eternal
Debate on verse, transport, the part
The army will play-and on art.
My Room
© George MacDonald
But when, sinking slow, the sun
Leaves the glowing curtain dun,
I, of prophet-insight reft,
Shall be dull and dreamless left;
I must hasten proof on proof,
Weaving in the warp my woof!
Paulo Purganti And His Wife: An Honest, But A Simple Pair
© Matthew Prior
On marry'd Men, that dare be bad,
She thought no Mercy should be had;
They should be hang'd, or starv'd, or flead,
Or serv'd like Romish Priests in Swede.-
In short, all Lewdness She defy'd:
And stiff was her Parochial Pride.
May-Day, 1837
© Caroline Norton
I.
MAY-DAY is come!--While yet the unwillng Spring
Checks with capricious frown the opening year,
Onward, where bleak winds have been whispering,
Aquae Sulis
© Thomas Hardy
The chimes called midnight, just at interlune,
And the daytime talk on the Roman investigations
Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune
The bubbling waters played near the excavations.
Recollections
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene,
When all the golden days,
Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays,
Danced o'er the deepening green.
