Women poems
/ page 98 of 142 /Hans Sachs' Poetical Mission.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Soon as the spring-sun meets his view,
Repose begets him labour anew;
He feels that he holds within his brain
A little world, that broods there amain,
And that begins to act and to live,
Which he to others would gladly give.
Sir Curt's Wedding-journey.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
WITH a bridegroom's joyous bearing,Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast,
To his mistress' home repairing,There to hold his wedding feast;
When a threatening foe advancesFrom a desert, rocky spot;
For the fray they couch their lances,Not delaying, speaking not.Long the doubtful fight continues,Victory then for Curt declares;
Epiphanias.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
THE three holy kings with their star's bright ray,--
They eat and they drink, but had rather not pay;
They like to eat and drink away,
They eat and drink, but had rather not pay.
The Spagnoletto. Act IV
© Emma Lazarus
Night. RIBERA'S bedroom. RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown,
seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter from
an open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She stands
irresolute for a moment on the threshold behind her father,
watching him, passes her hand rapidly over her brow and eyes,
and then knocks.
The Destruction Of Magdeburg.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
[For a fine account of the fearful sack of Magdeburg,
by Tilly, in the year 1613, see SCHILLER's History of the Thirty
Years' War.]
Johanna Sebus.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
[To the memory of an excellent and beautiful
girl of 17, belonging to the village of Brienen, who perished on
the 13th of January, 1809, whilst giving help on the occasion of
the breaking up of the ice on the Rhine, and the bursting of the
dam of Cleverham.]
The Dance Of Death.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
And women and men stepping forth are descried,
Starting From Paumanok
© Walt Whitman
Of earth, rocks, Fifth-month flowers, experienced-stars, rain, snow,
my amaze;
Having studied the mocking-bird's tones, and the mountainhawk's,
And heard at dusk the unrival'd one, the hermit thrush from the
swamp-cedars,
Solitary, singing in the West, I strike up for a New World.
The First Walpurgis-night.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Would ye, then, so rashly act?
Would ye instant death attract?
Know ye not the cruel threats
Ode To The Departing Year
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
I.
Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time!
It is most hard, with an untroubled ear
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear!
Gipsy Song.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
IN the drizzling mist, with the snow high-pil'd,
In the Winter night, in the forest wild,
I heard the wolves with their ravenous howl,
I heard the screaming note of the owl:
The Rat-catcher.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I AM the bard known far and wide,
The travell'd rat-catcher beside;
A man most needful to this town,
So glorious through its old renown.
Vanitas! Vanitatum Vanitas!
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Hurrah!
Then he who would be a comrade of mine
Must rattle his glass, and in chorus combine,
Over these dregs of wine.
To An Aeolian Harp
© Sara Teasdale
The winds have grown articulate in thee,
And voiced again the wail of ancient woe
That smote upon the winds of long ago:
The cries of Trojan women as they flee,
Of Modern Poetry
© Wallace Stevens
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
A Quarrel With Love
© Nicholas Breton
Oh that I could write a story
Of love's dealing with affection!
How he makes the spirit sorry
That is touch'd with his infection.
Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird
© Wallace Stevens
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
Robert the Bruce (To Douglas in Dying)
© Edwin Muir
'MY life is done, yet all remains,
The breath has gone, the image not,
The Convent Threshold
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
There's blood between us, love, my love,
There's father's blood, there's brother's blood,
And blood's a bar I cannot pass.
I choose the stairs that mount above,