War poems
/ page 344 of 504 /
To Massachusetts
© John Greenleaf Whittier
WHAT though around thee blazes
No fiery rallying sign?
From all thy own high places,
Give heaven the light of thine!
Peter Rugg the Bostonian
© Louise Imogen Guiney
The mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.
To the Virtuosi
© William Shenstone
Hail curious Wights! to whom so fair
The form of mortal flies is!
Who deem those grubs beyond compare,
Which common sense despises.
Antigone
© George Meredith
The buried voice bespake Antigone.
'O sister! couldst thou know, as thou wilt know,
The Quaker Alumni
© John Greenleaf Whittier
From the well-springs of Hudson, the sea-cliffs of Maine,
Grave men, sober matrons, you gather again;
And, with hearts warmer grown as your heads grow more cool,
Play over the old game of going to school.
When You Meet A Man From Your Own Home Town
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Sing, O Muse, in treble clef,
A little song of the A.E.F.,
First Sunday After Easter
© John Keble
First Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invoked in hour of need,
Thou count me for Thine own
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy'st in miracles of love),
Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!
The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
© John Keats
At length her constant eyelids come
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
At Venice,--
The Columbiad: Book V
© Joel Barlow
Sage Franklin next arose with cheerful mien,
And smiled unruffled o'er the solemn scene;
His locks of age a various wreath embraced,
Palm of all arts that e'er a mortal graced;
Beneath him lay the sceptre kings had borne,
And the tame thunder from the tempest torn.
Spring
© Lola Ridge
A spring wind on the Bowery,
Blowing the fluff of night shelters
Off bedraggled garments,
And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor
Like lewd growths.
Nemesis
© Henry Lawson
It is night-time when the saddest and the darkest memories haunt,
When outside the printing office the most glaring posters flaunt,
When the love-wrong is accomplished. And I think of things and mark
That the blackest lies are written, told, and printed after dark.
Tis the time of late editions. It is night when, as of old,
Foulest things are done for hatred, for ambition, love and gold.
Satire V
© John Donne
Thou shalt not laugh in this leafe, Muse, nor they
Whom any pity warmes; He which did lay
Shakuntala Act VII (Final Act)
© Kalidasa
ACT VII
King Dushyant with Matali in the chariot of Indra (king of gods in heaven and also god of thunder), supposed to be above the clouds.
King Dushyant: I am sensible, O Matali, that, for having executed the commission which Indra gave me, I deserved not such a profusion of honours.
Questions
© Bertolt Brecht
Write me what you're wearing! Is it warm?
Write me how you lie! Do you lie there softly?
Write me how you look! Is it still the same?
Write me what you're missing! Is it my arm?
An Invocation
© Frances Anne Kemble
Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell
Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear
'Dichterliebe'
© Gwen Harwood
So hungry-sensitive that he
craves day and night the pap of praise,
he'll ease his gripes or fingerpaint
in heartsblood on a public page.
The ordinary world must be
altered to circumvent his rage.
Song. Hush, Hush! Tread Softly!
© John Keats
1.
Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very well
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear.
At Cashel
© Padraic Colum
ABOVE me stand, worn from their ancient use,
The King's, the Bishop's, and the Warrior's house,
Quiet as folds upon a grassy knoll:
Stark-grey they stand, wall joined to ancient wall,
Chapel, and Castle, and Cathedral.
