Women poems
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The Pastime of Pleasure: Of dysposycyon the II. parte of rethoryke - (til line 4920)
© Stephen Hawes
The copy of the letter. Ca. xxxi.
3951 Right gentyll herte of grene flourynge age
3952 The sterre of beaute and of famous porte
3953 Consyder well that your lusty courage
The Song Of Hiawatha XXII: Hiawatha's Departure
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
O'er the water floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the water,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill
© John Keats
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Quatrains Of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?
Italy : 46. Sorrento
© Samuel Rogers
He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind
Blows fragrance from Posilipo, may soon,
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake,
Land underneath the cliff, where once among
Breitmann In Turkey
© Charles Godfrey Leland
DERR BREITMANN hear im Turkenreich
Vas fighten high und low,
"Steh auf, oh Schwackenhammer mein!
It's dime for us to go.
Parfum Exotique (Exotic Perfume)
© Charles Baudelaire
Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne,
Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux
Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone;
I Love Sensual Women
© Daniil Ivanovich Kharms
I love sensual women and not passionate ones. A passionate woman closes her eyes, moans and shouts and the enjoyment of a passionate woman is blind.
A passionate woman writhes about, grabs you with her hands without looking where, clasps you, kisses you, even bites you and hurries to reach her climax as soon as she can. She has no time to display her sexual organs, no time to examine, touch with the hand and kiss your sexual organs, she is in such a hurry to slake her passion. Having slaked her passion, the passionate woman will fall asleep. The sexual organs of a passionate woman are dry. A passionate woman is always in some way or another mannish.
Don Juan: Canto The Fifth
© George Gordon Byron
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
The Gypsy
© Edward Thomas
A fortnight before Christmas Gypsies were everywhere:
Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to the fair.
At The Fall Of An Age
© Robinson Jeffers
(The story of Achilles rising from the dead for love of Helen
is well enough known. That of Polyxo's vengeance may be less
The Lord of the Isles: Canto IV.
© Sir Walter Scott
I.
Stranger! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced
A Parson's Letter To A Young Poet
© Jean Ingelow
They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more;
One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill
That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work;
When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light
And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came
And marked her till she span off all her thread.
The Last Tournament
© Alfred Tennyson
To whom the King, `Peace to thine eagle-borne
Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.'
The Death Of President Lincoln
© Joseph Furphy
Now let the howling tempest roar
For Booth can feel its force no more;
Now let the captors bend their steel
Against the form that cannot feel
Their tyranny has spent its hour
And Booth is far beyond their power.
Women Have Loved Before As I Love Now
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Women have loved before as I love now;
At least, in lively chronicles of the past
Trafalgar Square
© Robert Fuller Murray
These verses have I pilfered like a bee
Out of a letter from my C. C. C.
In London, showing what befell him there,
With other things, of interest to me
The Dance Of The Seven Sins
© Arthur Symons
THE STAGE-MANAGER
It is. Each morning that decays
To midnight ends the world as well,
For the world's day, as that farewell
When, at the ultimate judgment-Stroke,
Heaven too shall vanish in pale smoke.
