Work poems

/ page 48 of 355 /

Order by :

1
. . .
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
. . .
355

A Father's Tribute

© Edgar Albert Guest

I don't know what they'll put him at, or what

his post may be;

On the Countess of Burlington Cutting Paper

© Alexander Pope

Pallas grew vapourish once, and odd,
She would not do the least right thing,
Either for goddess, or for god,
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

On The Morning Of Christs Nativity. Compos'd 1629

© John Milton

I.
This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heavens eternal King,
Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born,

The Ring And The Book - Chapter XII - The Book And The Ring

© Robert Browning

HERE were the end, had anything an end:

Thus, lit and launched, up and up roared and soared

Black Mousquetaire: A Legend Of France

No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-
No proud exulting look is there,-
His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earthward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by his side!

Book Fourth [Summer Vacation]

© William Wordsworth

BRIGHT was the summer's noon when quickening steps

Followed each other till a dreary moor

The Cageing Of Ares

© George Meredith

[Iliad, v. V. 385--Dedicated to the Council at The Hague.]

How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughed

Paradise Regain'd : Book III.

© John Milton

So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood
A while as mute, confounded what to say,
What to reply, confuted and convinced
Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift;

The Kalevala - Rune VIII

© Elias Lönnrot

MAIDEN OF THE RAINBOW.

"I am no mystic. All the ways of God"

© Lesbia Harford

I am no mystic. All the ways of God
Are dark to me.
I know not if he lived or if he died
In agony.

The Lumbermen

© John Greenleaf Whittier

WILDLY round our woodland quarters
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.

The Fovrth Booke Of Qvodlibets

Sermons and Epigrams haue a like end,
To improue, to reproue, and to amend:
Some passe without this vse, 'cause they are witty;
And so doe many Sermons, more's the pitty.

The Woodmans Daughter

In Gerald's Cottage by the hill,

Old Gerald and his child,

The Voice Calling

IN the hush of April weather,
With the bees in budding heather,
And the white clouds floating, floating, and the sunshine falling broad;
While my children down the hill
Run and leap, and I sit still,--
Through the silence, through the silence art Thou calling, O my God?