War poems

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Fire Pictures

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

O! THE rolling, rushing fire!
O! the fire!
How it rages, wilder, higher,
Like a hot heart's fierce desire,

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Alfred. Book III.

© Henry James Pye

  Fix'd on the arid spot, whose scanty bounds
  On every side the deep morass surrounds,
  The monarch, and his martial friend, with care,
  'Gainst close surprise and bold attack prepare;
  Exert each art their safety to ensure,
  And every pass, with wary eye, secure.

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Mostly Slavonic

© Henry Lawson

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

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The Intellectual

© Karl Shapiro


The man behind the book may not be man,
His own man or the book’s or yet the time’s,
But still be whole, deciding what he can
In praise of politics or German rimes;

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Confederate Memorial Day

© Anonymous

The marching armies of the past
  Along our Southern plains,
Are sleeping now in quiet rest
  Beneath the Southern rains.

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To The Young

© John Hay

Letyour feet not falter, your course not alter
  By golden apples, till victory's won!
The sword's sharp clangor, the dart's shrill anger,
  Swerve not the hero thundering on.

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Sir Macklin

© William Schwenck Gilbert

Of all the youths I ever saw
None were so wicked, vain, or silly,
So lost to shame and Sabbath law,
As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY.

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The Faithful Few: An Ode

© William Hamilton

While Pow'r triumphant bears unrival'd Sway,
  Propt by the Aid of all-prevailing Gold;
  While bold Corruption blasts the Face of Day,
  And Men, in Herds, are offer'd to be sold;
Select, Urania, from the venal Throng,
The Faithful Few, to grace the deathless Song!

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May, 1918

© John Jay Chapman

Again my eyes upon the night were turned.
The central darkness bloomed, and—robed in state—
While her great works about her burned—
Sate France enthronèd and incoronate!

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What The Traveller Said At Sunset

© John Greenleaf Whittier

The shadows grow and deepen round me,
I feel the deffall in the air;
The muezzin of the darkening thicket,
I hear the night-thrush call to prayer.

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Abram Morrison

© John Greenleaf Whittier

'Midst the men and things which will
Haunt an old man's memory still,
Drollest, quaintest of them all,
With a boy's laugh I recall
Good old Abram Morrison.

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A Wren's Nest

© William Wordsworth

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
  In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
  In snugness may compare.

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Written At Mycenae

© Richard Monckton Milnes

I saw a weird procession glide along
The vestibule before the
Lion's gate;
A Man of godlike limb and warrior state,

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Twilight Song

© Arthur Symons

Warder of silence, keep

Watch on the ways of sleep;

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A Fable For Critics

© James Russell Lowell

  'Why, nothing of consequence, save this attack
On my friend there, behind, by some pitiful hack,
Who thinks every national author a poor one,
That isn't a copy of something that's foreign, 
And assaults the American Dick--'

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The Judgment Of Paris

© Thomas Parnell

Where waving Pines the brows of Ida shade,
The swain young Paris half supinely laid,
Saw the loose Flocks thro' shrubs unnumber'd rove
And Piping call'd them to the gladded grove.
'Twas there he met the Message of the skies,
That he the Judge of Beauty deal the prize.

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The Earth-Mother

© Frank Dalby Davison

COMETH a voice:—‘My children, hear;  


 From the crowded street and the close-packed mart  

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And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

© George Gordon Byron

And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.

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The Spirit's Mysteries

© Felicia Dorothea Hemans

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
 Aside for ever;–it may be a sound–
A tone of music–summer's breath, or spring–
 A flower–a leaf–the ocean–which may wound–
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. ~Childe Harold.

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The School

© John Crowe Ransom

I WAS not drowsy though the scholars droned.

  Hearing the music that they made of Greek,