War poems
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Souvenirs du Temps Bien Perdu
© Arthur James Marshall Smith
Blouse and bloomers, blouse and bloomers, dewy warm against your skin.Pretty breasts and little buttocks, oh! the Joycean sweets of sin,As I fumble at the button and elastics yours are in!
The Wish of the Weary Woman
© Sigourney Lydia Huntley
A form there was, still spared by timeTill the slow century fill'd its prime;Stretch'd on its bed, with half-closed eyeIt mark'd uncertain shades flit by;Nor scarce the varied world of soundTo the seal'd ear admittance found;While the worn brow, in wrinkles dark,Seem'd like the gnarl'd oak's roughen'd bark
This is the house of Bedlam
© Elizabeth Bishop
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
Astrophel and Stella: Fift Song
© Sir Philip Sidney
While fauour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought:Then grew my tongue and pen records vnto thy glorie:I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee:I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,And all eares worse then deafe, that heard not out thy storie
Astrophel and Stella: 98
© Sir Philip Sidney
Ah bed, the field where joyes peace some do see,The field where all my thoughts to warre be train'd,How is thy grace by my strange fortune stain'd!How thy lee shores by my sighes stormed be!With sweete soft shades thou oft invitest meTo steale some rest, but wretch I am constrain'd,(Spur'd with loues spur, though gold & shortly rain'dWith cares hard hand) to turne and tosse in thee
Astrophel and Stella: 92
© Sir Philip Sidney
Be your words made (good Sir) of Indian ware,That you allow me them by so small rate?Or do you cutted Spartanes imitate,Or do you meane my tender eares to spare?That to my questions you so totall are,When I demaund of Phœnix Stellas state,You say forsooth, you left her well of late:O God, thinke you that satisfies my care?I would know whether she sit or walke,How cloth'd, how waited on, sigh'd she or smilde,Whereof, with whom, how often did she talke,With what pastime, times journey she beguilde,If her lips daig'nd to sweeten my poore name,Say all, and all, well sayd, still say the same
Astrophel and Stella: 76
© Sir Philip Sidney
She comes, and streight therewith her shining twins do moue,Their rayes to me, who in her tedious absence layBenighted in cold wo, but now appeares my day,The only light of joy, the only warmth of Loue
Astrophel and Stella: 39
© Sir Philip Sidney
Come sleepe, O sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,The baiting place of wit, the balme of woe,The poore mans wealth, the prisoners release,Th'indifferent Iudge betweene the high and low;With shield of proofe shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts, dispaire at me doth throw,O make me in those civill warres to cease;I will good tribute pay if thou do so
Astrophel and Stella: 36
© Sir Philip Sidney
Stella, whence doth this new assault arise,A conquer'd golden ransackt heart to winne?Whereto long since through my long battred eyes;Whole armies of thy beauties entred in
Astrophel and Stella: 34
© Sir Philip Sidney
Come let me write, and to what end? to easeA burth'ned hart, how can words ease, which areThe glasses of thy dayly vexing care?Oft cruell sights well pictured foorth do please
Astrophel and Stella: 30
© Sir Philip Sidney
Whether the Turkish new-moone minded beTo fill his hornes this yeare on Christian coast:How Poles right king meanes without leaue of hoast,To warme with ill-made fire cold Moscouy
Astrophel and Stella: 8
© Sir Philip Sidney
Loue borne in Greece, of late fled from his natiue place,Forc'd by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hartIs no fit marke to pierce with his fine pointed dart:And pleasd with our soft peace, staid here his flying race,But finding these North climes do coldly him embrace,Not vsed to frozen clips, he straue to find some part,Wherewith most ease and warmth he might employ his art:At length he perch'd himselfe in Stellas joyfull face,Whose faire skin, beamy eyes like mourning sun on snow,Deceiu'd the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,Effects of liuely heate, must needs in nature grow
Shakespeare's Sonnets: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
© William Shakespeare
When forty winters shall besiege thy browAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:Then being askt where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,To say within thine own deep-sunken eyesWere an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise
Shakespeare's Sonnets: The little love-god lying once asleep
© William Shakespeare
The little love-god lying once asleep,Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brandWhil'st many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keepCame tripping by, but in her maiden handThe fairest votary took up that fire,Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd,And so the general of hot desireWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd
Shakespeare's Sonnets: So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
© William Shakespeare
So am I as the rich whose blessèd keyCan bring him to his sweet up-lockèd treasure,The which he will not ev'ry hour surveyFor blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure
Shakespeare's Sonnets: Oh from what pow'r hast thou this pow'rful might
© William Shakespeare
Oh from what pow'r hast thou this pow'rful mightWith insufficiency my heart to sway,To make me give the lie to my true sightAnd swear that brightness doth not grace the day?Whence hast thou this becoming of things illThat in the very refuse of thy deedsThere is such strength and warrantise of skillThat in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,The more I hear and see just cause of hate?Oh, though I love what others do abhor,With others thou should'st not abhor my state
Shakespeare's Sonnets: No longer mourn for me when I am dead
© William Shakespeare
No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world that I am fledFrom this vile world with vildest worms to dwell:Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it, for I love you soThat I in your sweet thoughts would be forgotIf thinking on me then should make you woe
Shakespeare's Sonnets: My glass shall not persuade me I am old
© William Shakespeare
My glass shall not persuade me I am oldSo long as youth and thou are of one date,But when in thee time's furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate
Shakespeare's Sonnets: Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
© William Shakespeare
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal warHow to divide the conquest of thy sight
