War poems

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Written for the "Martha Washington Court Journal".Down cold snow-stretches of our bitter time,
When windy shams and the rain-mocking sleet
Of Trade have cased us in such icy rime
That hearts are scarcely hot enough to beat,

The Farm Child's Lullaby

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

OH, the little bird is rocking in the cradle of the wind,

And it's bye, my little wee one, bye;

Jones's Porvate Argyment

© Sidney Lanier

That air same Jones, which lived in Jones,
He had this pint about him:
He'd swear with a hundred sighs and groans,
That farmers MUST stop gittin' loans,
And git along without 'em:

Ireland.

© Sidney Lanier

Heartsome Ireland, winsome Ireland,
Charmer of the sun and sea,
Bright beguiler of old anguish,
How could Famine frown on thee?

In Absence.

© Sidney Lanier

I.The storm that snapped our fate's one ship in twain
Hath blown my half o' the wreck from thine apart.
O Love! O Love! across the gray-waved main
To thee-ward strain my eyes, my arms, my heart.

Hymns Of The Marshes.

© Sidney Lanier

I have waked, I have come, my beloved! I might not abide:
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide
In your gospelling glooms, -- to be
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea.

Sonnet. To Generall Goring, After The Pacification At Berwi

© Richard Lovelace

I.
Now the peace is made at the foes rate,
Whilst men of armes to kettles their old helmes translate,
And drinke in caskes of honourable plate.

At First. To Charlotte Cushman.

© Sidney Lanier

My crippled sense fares bow'd along
His uncompanioned way,
And wronged by death pays life with wrong
And I wake by night and dream by day.

A Sunrise Song.

© Sidney Lanier

Young palmer sun, that to these shining sands
Pourest thy pilgrim's tale, discoursing still
Thy silver passages of sacred lands,
With news of Sepulchre and Dolorous Hill,

A Florida Sunday.

© Sidney Lanier

From cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seas
Oft come repenting tempests here to die;
Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,
They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh,

The Shepherd's Tree

© John Clare

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior's destiny! I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;

Sonnet XVII. Happy Is England

© John Keats

Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent:

The Instinct Of Hope

© John Clare

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?

Clock-O'-Clay

© John Clare

In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.

The Thrush's Nest

© John Clare

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound

May

© John Clare

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song

Sonnet XXII: Heart's Haven

Sometimes she is a child within mine arms,

Cowering beneath dark wings that love must chase,

A Fable

Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,
One Sundy mornin' 'greed to go
Agunnin' soon 'z the bells wuz done
And meetin' finally begun,
So'st no one wouldn't be about
Ther Sabbath-breakin' to spy out.