War poems
/ page 414 of 504 /
In the footsteps of the walking air
© Kenneth Patchen
In the footsteps of the walking air
Sky's prophetic chickens weave their cloth of awe
And hillsides lift green wings in somber journeying.
Meditation
© Mikhail Lermontov
With sadness I survey our present generation!
Their future seems so empty, dark, and cold,
The Young Man's Song
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
At last the curse has run its date!
The heavens grow clear above,
And on the purple plains of Hate,
We'll build the throne of Love!
The Wishing Gate Destroyed
© William Wordsworth
HOPE rules a land forever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught?--the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.
Satire II:The Country Mouse and the Town Mouse
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
MY mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse,
That for because her livelood was but thin [livelihood]
Would needs go seek her townish sister's house.
The Fire
© Lola Ridge
The old men of the world have made a fire
To warm their trembling hands.
They poke the young men in.
The young men burn like withes.
Of the Mean and Sure Estate
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse,
That, for because her livelood was but thin,
To Stella Visiting Me in My Sickness
© Jonathan Swift
Pallas, observing Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
The Demon In Me
© Marina Tsvetaeva
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
Overnight At The Riverside Tower
© Du Fu
Evening colors linger on mountain paths.
Out beyond this study perched over River Gate,
At the cliff's edge, frail clouds stay
All night. Among waves, a lone, shuddering
Lines On Reading Too Many Poets
© Dorothy Parker
Roses, rooted warm in earth,
Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Die; and so their song shall keep.
The Passing Of The Primroses
© Alfred Austin
Primroses
Nay, rather, why should we longer stay?
We are not needed, now stooping showers
Have sandalled the feet of May with flowers.
The Sicilian Captive
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far,
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.
We Must Get Home
© James Whitcomb Riley
We must get home! How could we stray like this?--
So far from home, we know not where it is,--
Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place
Of children's faces--and the mother's face--
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears
Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.
Song Of Saul, Before His Last Battle
© George Gordon Byron
I.
Warriors and Chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path:
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!
Dreams Nascent
© David Herbert Lawrence
My world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes
Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;
An endless tapestry the past has women drapes
The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform.
Advent Hymn
© Ada Cambridge
Another mile-a year
Pass'd by for ever! And the warnings swell
From upper heaven to darkest depths of hell,-
O we are drawing near!
