Popular Poems RSSFri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTI saw thee once--once only--years ago:I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden,Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-light,Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--Fell on the upturn'd faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in this parterre, enchantedBy thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.Clad all in white, upon a violet bankI saw thee half-reclining; while the moonFell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),That bade me pause before that garden-gate,To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--And in an instant all things disappeared.(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)The pearly lustre of the moon went out:The mossy banks and the meandering paths,The happy flowers and the repining trees,Were seen no more: the very roses' odorsDied in the arms of the adoring airs.All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:Save only the divine light in thine eyes--Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.I saw but them--they were the world to me.I saw but them--saw only them for hours--Saw only them until the moon went down.What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!How silently serene a sea of pride!How daring an ambition! yet how deep--How fathomless a capacity for love!But now, at lengt... Read more

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTIMMITATION OF ENGLISH POETS. COWLEYFain would my Muse the flowery treasures sing,And humble glories of the youthful Spring;Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,The thin undress of superficial light,And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,Blushing in bright diversities of day.Each painted floweret in the lake belowSurveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vainTransformèd, gazes on himself again.Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,And mount the hill in venerable rows:There the green infants in their beds are laid,The garden's hope, and its expected shade.Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,And vernal honours to their autumn join;Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,Yet in the rising blossom promise more.There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,By laurels shielded from the piercing day:Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,Still turns her beauties from the invading beam,Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,At once a shelter from her boughs receives,Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:32:02 GMT“ARE you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree?Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.You’re booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,You’re booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me.”Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.She clasp’d her newborn baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree.“I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see,And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee;He ’s kill’d a boy, he ’s kill’d a man, and why must he kill me?”“Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree,Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee,And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me,It ’s you may keep your baby, for you ’ll get no keep from me.”“That husbands could be cruel,” said Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe,“That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three;But oh, to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me,And be kill’d across a fence at last for all the world to see!”She master’d young Vindictive—O, the gallant lass was she!And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;But he kill’d her at the brook against a pollard willow tree;Oh! he kill’d her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:32:02 GMTThe holly bush, a sober lump of green,Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,And smiles at winter be it eer so keenWith all the leafy luxury of May.And O it is delicious, when the dayIn winter's loaded garment keenly blowsAnd turns her back on sudden falling snows,To go where gravel pathways creep betweenArches of evergreen that scarce let throughA single feather of the driving storm;And in the bitterest day that ever blewThe walk will find some places still and warmWhere dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarmTo little birds that flirt and start away.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:31:02 GMTIN the gloom of whiteness,In the great silence of snow,A child was sighingAnd bitterly saying: "Oh,They have killed a white bird up there on her nest,The down is fluttering from her breast."And still it fell through that dusky brightnessOn the child crying for the bird of the snow.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:32:02 GMTTHE FOURTH PASTORAL, OR DAPHNE.TO THE MEMORY OF MRS TEMPEST.LYCIDAS.Thyrsis, the music of that murmuring springIs not so mournful as the strains you sing;Nor rivers winding through the vales below,So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!THYRSIS.Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,That call'd the listening Dryads to the plain?Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along,And bade his willows learn the moving song.LYCIDAS.So may kind rains their vital moisture yieldAnd swell the future harvest of the field.Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,And said, 'Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!'Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.THYRSIS.Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring;Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,And break your bows, as when Adonis died;And with your golden darts, now useless grown,Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:'Let Nature change, let Heaven and Earth deplore,Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!''Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay;See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie,With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.Ah, what avail the beauties Nature wore,Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more!For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood,The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,In notes more sad than when they sing their own;In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,Silent, or only to her name replies;Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore;Now Daphne's dead, and... Read more

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:33:01 GMT'Tis a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, oh! sighing.When such a time cometh,I do retireInto and old roomBeside a bright fire:Oh, pile a bright fire!And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—Oh, drearily sings!I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit I,Reading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!Then with an old friendI talk of our youth!How 'twas gladsome, but oftenFoolish, forsooth:But gladsome, gladsome!Or to get merryWe sing some old rhyme,That made the wood ring againIn summertime—Sweet summertime!Then go we to smoking,Silent and snug:Nought passes between us,Save a brown jug—Sometimes!And sometimes a tearWill rise in each eye,Seeing the two old friendsSo merrily—So merrily!And ere to bedGo we, go we,Down on the ashesWe kneel on the knee,Praying together!Thus, then, live I,Till, 'mid all the gloom,By heaven! the bold sunIs with me in the roomShining, shining!Then the clouds part,Swallow soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!I jump up, like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTTHE long small room that showed willows in the westNarrowed up to the end the fireplace filled,Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessedWhat need or accident made them so build.Only the moon, the mouse and the sparrow peepedIn from the ivy round the casement thick.Of all they saw and heard there they shall keepThe tale for the old ivy and older brick.When I look back I am like moon, sparrow and mouseThat witnessed what they could never understandOr alter or prevent in the dark house.One thing remains the same--this my right handCrawling crab-like over the clean white page,Resting awhile each morning on the pillow,Then once more starting to crawl on towards age.The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTA something in a summer's day,As slow her flambeaux burn away,Which solemnizes me.A something in a summer's noon, --An azure depth, a wordless tune,Transcending ecstasy.And still within a summer's nightA something so transporting bright,I clap my hands to see;Then veil my too inspecting face,Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for me.The wizard-fingers never rest,The purple brook within the breastStill chafes its narrow bed;Still rears the East her amber flag,Guides still the sun along the cragHis caravan of red,Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their low brows;Or bees, that thought the summer's nameSome rumor of deliriumNo summer could for them;Or Arctic creature, dimly stirredBy tropic hint, -- some travelled birdImported to the wood;Or wind's bright signal to the ear,Making that homely and severe,Contented, known, beforeThe heaven unexpected came,To lives that thought their worshippingA too presumptuous psalm.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTFinite to fail, but infinite to venture.For the one ship that struts the shoreMany's the gallant, overwhelmed creatureNodding in navies nevermore.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMT