War poems
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Sonnet XIV: Youth's Spring-Tribute
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear
I lay, and spread your hair on either side,
Italy : 39. The Fountain
© Samuel Rogers
It was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture -- in some earlier day perhaps
Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.
"O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.
Nature's Praise
© John Austin
Hark, my soul, how everything
Strives to serve our bounteous King:
Each a double tribute pays,
Sings its part, and then obeys.
I Dreamed That in a City Dark as Paris
© Louis Simpson
I dreamed that in a city dark as Paris
I stood alone in a deserted square.
The night was trembling with a violet
Expectancy. At the far edge it moved
And rumbled; on that flickering horizon
The guns were pumping color in the sky.
Address To Thought
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
OH thou! the musing, wakeful pow'r,
That lov'st the silent, midnight hour,
Thy lonely vigils then to keep,
And banish far the angel, sleep,
Nature, Betrothed and Wedded
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
HAVE you not noted how in early spring,
From out the forests, past the murmuring brooks,
O'er the hillsides, Nature, with airy grace,
Like some fair virgin, touched by lights and shades,
Illumination
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Is it joy, or is it peace,
Senses' magical release,
That triumphant swells my heart
Where I walk the fields apart?
To my Comrade, Moses J. Jackson, Scoffer at this Scholarship
© Alfred Edward Housman
As we went walking far and wide
Through silent fields and countryside,
Statement with Rhymes
© Weldon Kees
Plurality is all. I sympathize, but cannot grieve
too long for those who wear their dialectics on their sleeves.
The pattern’s one I sometimes rather like; there’s really nothing wrong
with it for some. But I should add: It doesn’t wear for long,
before I push the elevator bell and quickly leave.
Atlantic Oil
© Cesare Pavese
The drunk mechanic is happy to be in the ditch.
From the tavern, five minutes through the dark field
Trollius and trellises
© Charles Bukowski
I won’t blame him for getting
out
and hope he sends me photos of his
Rose Lane, his
Gardenia Avenue.
The Death Of The Pauper Child
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobsno grieving now:
Waterloo Day
© Edith Nesbit
THIS is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.
Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;
Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,
Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,
Gareth And Lynette
© Alfred Tennyson
To whom the mother said,
'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
And handed down the golden treasure to him.'
