Work poems
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Sunday Next Before Advent
© John Keble
Will God indeed with fragments bear,
Snatched late from the decaying year?
The Time Before Death
© Kabir
Friend? hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think... and think... while you are alive.
What you call "salvation" belongs to the time
before death.
A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - October
© George MacDonald
1.
REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good.
Eclogue:--John An' Thomas
© William Barnes
Well, there, the geärden stuff an' flow'rs
Don't leäve me many idle hours;
But still, though I mid plant or zow,
'Tis Woone above do meäke it grow.
The Song Of Hiawatha XIII: Blessing The Cornfields
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
The Question
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Now here is where I fail to understand,
And put my question in all reverence,
On bended knee with head most lowly bent,
To the All-High, All-Knowing Providence.
Decline And Fall
© John Frederick Nims
Cornice rose in ranges, rose so high
It saw no sky, that forum, but noon sky.
Marble shone like shallows; columns too
Streamed with cool light as rocks in breakers do.
The Ocean
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
HE that in venturous barks hath been
A wanderer on the deep,
Can tell of many an awful scene,
Where storms for ever sweep.
Ironing After Midnight by Marsha Truman Cooper: American Life in Poetry #69 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet La
© Ted Kooser
This marvelous poem by the California poet Marsha Truman Cooper perfectly captures the world of ironing, complete with its intimacy. At the end, doing a job to perfection, pressing the perfect edge, establishes a reassuring order to an otherwise mundane and slightly tawdry world.
Ironing After Midnight
The Wanderer: A Vision: Canto IV
© Richard Savage
Still o'er my mind wild Fancy holds her sway,
Still on strange visionary land I stray.
Now scenes crowd thick! now indistinct appear!
Swift glide the months, and turn the varying year!
The Giaour: A Fragment Of A Turkish Tale
© George Gordon Byron
No breath of air to break the wave
That rolls below the Athenian's grave,
That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff
First greets the homeward-veering skiff
High o'er the land he saved in vain;
When shall such Hero live again?
The Echo
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Of A Ballad Sung By H. Plunket Greene To His Old School
Twice three hundred boys were we,
Vision Of Columbus - Book 4
© Joel Barlow
In one dark age, beneath a single hand,
Thus rose an empire in the savage land.
The Devil's Walk. A Ballad
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose,
With care his sweet person adorning,
He put on his Sunday clothes.
On Sanazar's Being Honoured With Six hundred Duckets By The
© Richard Lovelace
Twas a blith prince exchang'd five hundred crowns
For a fair turnip. Dig, dig on, O clowns
But how this comes about, Fates, can you tell,
This more then Maid of Meurs, this miracle?
The Supper Of Armor
© Théophile Gautier
Bjorn, a strange cnobite,
On the plateau of a bare rock,
Inhabits, out of the world and time,
The tower of a fortress demolished.
An Elegy Upon The Death Of Dr. Donne, Dean Of Paul's
© Thomas Carew
Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit
The universal monarchy of wit;
Here lie two flamens, and both those, the best,
Apollo's first, at last, the true God's priest.
