Weather poems
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England's Day: A War-Saga
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Commended To Gortschakoff, Grant, And Bismark; And Dedicated To The British
1871
Our Canal
© Harriet Monroe
"All that was writ shall be fulfilled at last.
Cometill we round the circle, end the story.
The west-bound sun leads forward to the past
The thundering cruisers and the caravels.
Tomorrow you shall hear our song of glory
Rung in the chime of India's temple bells."
Vanitas
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
Beyond the need of weeping,
Beyond the reach of hands,
May she be quietly sleeping,
In what dim nebulous lands?
Ah, she who understands!
Gitanjali
© Rabindranath Tagore
1.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
Our Atlas
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Not Atlas, with his shoulders bent beneath the weighty world,
Bore such a burden as this man, on whom the Gods have hurled
The evils of old festering lands-yea, hurled them in their might
And left him standing all alone, to set the wrong things right.
The Sorry Hostess
© Edgar Albert Guest
She said she was sorry the weather was bad
The night that she asked us to dine;
The Lonely Woman
© Mabel Forrest
WHERE the ironbarks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale,
Where the wild vines oer the ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail,
Apples And Water
© Robert Graves
Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,
Drums that rattle and roar!
A mother and daughter stood together
Beside their cottage door.
The Cubical Domes
© David Gascoyne
Indeed indeed it is growing very sultry
The indian feather pots are scrambling out of the room
A Utilitarian View Of The Monitor's Fight
© Herman Melville
War shall yet be, and to the end;
But war-paint shows the streaks of weather;
War yet shall be, but the warriors
Are now but operatives; War's made
Less grand than Peace,
And a singe runs through lace and feather.
A Rhapsody
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Oh fly not, Pleasure, pleasant--hearted Pleasure.
Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay.
For my heart no measure
Knows nor other treasure
To buy a garland for my love to--day.
Eclogue:--The Times
© William Barnes
Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeärd
To own it. Why, who woulden do the seäme?
We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.
Bread is so high an' wages be so low,
That, after workèn lik' a hoss, you know,
A man can't eärn enough to vill his belly.
Heath from the Highlands
© Henry Kendall
Here, where the great hills fall away
To bays of silver sea,
I hold within my hand to-day
A wild thing, strange to me.
The Sleep of Sigismund
© Jean Ingelow
The doom'd king pacing all night through the windy fallow.
'Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,'
Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow,
Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own.
A Close Finish
© Jessie Pope
["A marriage is arranged between Miss Diana Dashington and Lord Broadacres."]
The race of the season is over ;
How John Quit The Farm
© James Whitcomb Riley
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on--
And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!
Lone Founts
© Herman Melville
Though fast youth's glorious fable flies,
View not the world with worldling's eyes;
The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
© Trumbull Stickney
The melancholy year is dead with rain.
Drop after drop on every branch pursues.
