War poems
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Eclogue:--The Times
© William Barnes
Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeärd
To own it. Why, who woulden do the seäme?
We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.
Bread is so high an' wages be so low,
That, after workèn lik' a hoss, you know,
A man can't eärn enough to vill his belly.
The Stream Is Flowing From The West
© Henry Timrod
The stream is flowing from the west;
As if it poured from yonder skies,
It wears upon its rippling breast
The sunset's golden dyes;
And bearing onward to the sea,
'T will clasp the isle that holdeth thee.
The Hollyhocks
© Craven Langstroth Betts
SOME space beyond the garden close
I sauntered down the shadowed lawn;
The Brus Book XI
© John Barbour
[Criticism of the compact about Stirling Castle]
And quhen this connand thus wes mad
The Two Painters: A Tale
© Washington Allston
At which, with fix'd and fishy
The Strangers both express'd amaze.
Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare
Such meanness of yourself declare.
Counterpoint: Two Rooms
© Conrad Aiken
He, in the room above, grown old and tired;
She, in the room below, his floor her ceiling,
Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light,
And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter.
She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night.
The Sleep of Sigismund
© Jean Ingelow
The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow.
'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,'
Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow,
Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own.
Show The Flag
© Edgar Albert Guest
Show the flag and let it wave
As a symbol of the brave
Let it float upon the breeze
As a sign for each who sees
That beneath it, where it rides,
Loyalty to-day abides.
Fragments
© Madison Julius Cawein
The fields of space gleam bright, as if some ancient giant, old
As the moon and her extinguished mountains,
Had dipped his fingers huge into the twilight's sea of gold
And sprinkled all the heavens from these fountains.
Sonnet XXVIII: From Fatal Interview
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
When we are old and these rejoicing veins
Are frosty channels to a muted stream,
The Wakeful Sleeper
© George MacDonald
When things are holding wonted pace
In wonted paths, without a trace
Or hint of neighbouring wonder,
Sometimes, from other realms, a tone,
A scent, a vision, swift, alone,
Breaks common life asunder.
Happiness
© Edith Wharton
THIS perfect love can find no words to say.
What words are left, still sacred for our use,
This Summer Morning Mariana Has
© Eli Siegel
Mariana, with the morning so,
Walking one morning up a road near woods,
With the sun young that morning,
And the dew not long gone from grass and roses;
With Pipe And Flute
© Henry Austin Dobson
WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man;
