War poems
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The Rose-Bud
© William Shenstone
"See, Daphne, see!" Florelio cried,
"And learn the sad effects of pride;
Yon shelter'd rose, how safe conceal'd!
How quickly blasted when reveal'd!
The Borough. Letter III: The Vicar--The Curate
© George Crabbe
THE VICAR.
WHERE ends our chancel in a vaulted space,
The Olive Of Peace
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
Divinest of Olives, O, never was seen
A bloom so enchanting, a verdure so green!
Sweet, sweet do thy Beauties entwiningly smile
In the Vine-tree of France and the Oak of our Isle!
Beam on the day,
Thou Olive gay, &c.
Sacrament Hymn
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
ON a fair Sabbath day, when His banquet is spread,
It is pleasant to feast with my Lord:
O Lassie Ayont The Hill!
© George MacDonald
Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace,
And no a sel ava!
I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face,
O' my thouchts and mysel and a';
The Stirrup Cup
© Aline Murray Kilmer
HERE where each road-worn one
Rests till the night is done,
In the grey dawning I saw my horse stand,
And as I left the inn
With his smooth face of sin
Smiling, mine host with a cup in his hand.
First The Dog
© Zbigniew Herbert
so first the dog honest mongrel
which has never abandoned us
dreaming of earthly lamps and bones
will fall asleep in its whirling kennel
its warm blood boiling drying away
A Shower In War-Time
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Rain, rain, sweet warm rain,
On the wood and on the plain,
And round me like a dropping well,
The great round drops they fell and fell.
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad
© Sarojini Naidu
What do you sell O ye merchants ?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
Things of great worth shall come to pass...
© Boris Pasternak
Things of great worth shall come to pass
By true foreknowledge and in fact,
Names worthier than mine in fame
And words which earned me men's esteem.
A Word To Philosophers
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
COLD philosophers, so apt
With your formulas exacting,
In your problems so enwrapt,
And your theories distracting;
Sunday Next Before Advent
© John Keble
Will God indeed with fragments bear,
Snatched late from the decaying year?
Fanscomb Barn
© Anne Kingsmill Finch
In Fanscomb Barn (who knows not Fanscomb Barn?)
Seated between the sides of rising Hills,
Night-Scene in Genoa
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
He pauses - from the partiarch's brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now;
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command,
His voice is awful, and his eye
Fill's with prophetic majesty.
