Wish poems

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92

To Dr. Sherlock, On His Practical Discourse Concerning Death

© Matthew Prior

Forgive the muse who, in unhallow'd strains,

The saint one moment from his God detains;

In A 'Bus.

© James Brunton Stephens

A QUARTER of a century agone,

Just such a face as this upon me shone,

Ode to Rae Wilson Esq.

© Thomas Hood

Mere verbiage,it is not worth a carrot!
Why, Socratesor Platowhere's the odds?
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods,
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

The Princess (part 6)

© Alfred Tennyson

My dream had never died or lived again.
As in some mystic middle state I lay;
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard:
Though, if I saw not, yet they told me all
So often that I speak as having seen.

The four Seasons of the Year.

© Anne Bradstreet

Spring.

Another four I've left yet to bring on,

A Close Finish

© Jessie Pope

["A marriage is arranged between Miss Diana Dashington and Lord Broadacres."]

The race of the season is over ;

So have I seen within a pen,
Young ducklings fostered by a hen;
But when let out, they run and muddle,
As instinct leads them, in a puddle;
The sober hen, not born to swim,
With mournful note clucks round the brim.

The Symptoms of Love

© William Cowper

Would my Delia know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night, and the first when I wake;
With my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.

The Photograph

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

See dis pictyah in my han'?

Dat's my gal;

Country Letter

© John Clare

Dear brother robin this comes from us all

With our kind love and could Gip write and all

To Hubert

© Edith Nesbit

Dear Hubert, if I ever found

A wishing-carpet lying round,

Elegy I

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'

hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly

How John Quit The Farm

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!

Song of the Guitar.

© Bai Juyi

In the tenth year of Yuanhe I was banished and demoted to be assistant official in Jiujiang. In the summer of the next year I was seeing a friend leave Penpu and heard in the midnight from a neighbouring boat a guitar played in the manner of the capital. Upon inquiry, I found that the player had formerly been a dancing-girl there and in her maturity had been married to a merchant. I invited her to my boat to have her play for us. She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Since my departure from the capital I had not felt sad; but that night, after I left her, I began to realize my banishment. And I wrote this long poem - six hundred and twelve characters.

I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River,