War poems
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The Pimpernel
© Celia Thaxter
SHE walks beside the silent shore,
The tide is high, the breeze is still;
Eve
© Francis Ernley Walrond
The gray of the morning
Creeps in the room like fear.
It is growing lighter,
But I sit crouched and shivering.
A Wreath Of Sonnets (6/14)
© France Preseren
Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days,
My songs remain, since from you, haughty maid,
They never won the word that might be said -
The word that neither saddens nor dismays.
The Garden Of Boccaccio
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
…
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !
Psyche
© Jones Very
I SAW a worm, with many a fold;
It spun itself a silken tomb;
And there in winter time enrolled,
It heeded not the cold or gloom.
The Progress of Error
© William Cowper
Sing, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long
May find a muse to grace it with a song),
Spring Awoke To-Day
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
SPRING awoke to-day!
Somewhere--far away--
Spring awoke to-day
From the depth of dream.
The Comrades
© Katharine Tynan
The angels walk with men in the red ruin and rain,
White and gold, as of old, without spot or stain.
Our warriors fought and died, the white lords by their side.
The angels walk with men.
Georgie Sails To-Morrow!
© Henry Clay Work
For sixteen years, a merry, laughing maiden,
I have warbl'd only songs of joy;
And in this heart, so very lightly laden,
Happy thoughts have ever found employ.
But times will change! and now there comes a sorrow,
Which bids me ev'ry joy resign:
Abraham Davenport
© John Greenleaf Whittier
'T was on a May-day of the far old year
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland sagas tell,--
Ambition
© Edward Thomas
Unless it was that day I never knew
Ambition. After a night of frost, before
The Rainbow
© James Thomson
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.
Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert, with the warbling brooks
Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,
Hymns to the Night : 4
© Novalis
Now I know when will come the last morning - when the Light no more scares away Night and Love - when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the Night - truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the Light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles - tabernacles of peace, there longs and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring - afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
In The Month When Sings The Cuckoo
© Alfred Austin
But if now I slept, I should sleep to wake
To the sleepless pang and the dreamless ache,
To the wild babe blossom within my heart,
To the darkening terror and swelling smart,
To the searching look and the words apart,
And the hint of the tell-tale cuckoo.
The Future Of Australia
© Mary Hannay Foott
The fireside carols and battle rhymes,
And romaunt of the knightly ring;
And the chant with hint of cathedral chimes,
Of him made blind to sing.
Romero
© William Cullen Bryant
"Here will I make my home--for here at least I see,
Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty;
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime,
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain thyme;
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild vine gads at will,
An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.
The Adventures Of Little Bob Bonnyface
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
(Don't you think that his was a wretched plight?
Just picture a boy from a bird in flight!
His heart and his knee-joints weak with fright.)
