That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about?
Thy pookèn don't goo on not over sprack.
Why I've a-pook'd my weäle, lo'k zee, clear out,
An' here I be ageän a-turnèn back.

Calidore: A Fragment

© John Keats

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,
Which the glad setting sun, in gold doth dress;
Whence ever, and anon the jay outsprings,
And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The Sleepers

© Sylvia Plath

No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
They lie as if under water
In a blue, unchanging light,
The French window ajar

Winter Moonlight

© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

LOUD-VOICED night, with the wild wind blowing
Many a tune;
Stormy night, with white rain-clouds going
Over the moon;

Surely thy body is thy mind,
For in thy face is nought to find,
Only thy soft unchristend smile,
That shadows neither love nor guile,
But shameless will and power immense,
In secret sensuous innocence.

The Angel Of The Doves.

© James Brunton Stephens

THE angels stood in the court of the King,

And into the midst, through the open door,

Chorus of Brids

© Aristophanes

YE Children of Man! whose life is a span,

Protracted with sorrow from day to day,

Sonnet

Im sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
Im bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood.

Twilight Monologue

CAN it be that the glory of manhood has passed,
That its purpose, its passion, its might,
Have all paled with the fervor that fed them at last,
As the twilight comes down with the night?