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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Written in Northampton County Asylum, by John Clare
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
Early Scare, by Tom Young
Lets terrorize baby.
Make him think he's in a cradle in a tree top,
swinging in the wind.
Hanging from a brittle bough ready to break,
moments from falling to the ground,
In Youth is Pleasure, by Robert Wever
IN a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay,
The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day,
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
Love, by William Charles Wentworth
She loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips
The live confession came, like rich perfume
From crimson petals bursting into bloom!
And still my heart at the remembrance skips
Like a young lion, and my tongue, too, trips
Where the Pelican Builds, by Mary Hannay Foott
The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still --
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.
Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
Absence, by Thomas William Heney
Ah, happy air that, rough or soft,
May kiss that face and stay;
And happy beams that from above
May choose to her their way;
And happy flowershtml>Complete Poem
To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty, by Matthew Prior
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Love's Ritual, by Charles Hanson Towne
Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find
Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins
New wonder, with old splendor let us bind
Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.
Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry,
Sirena, by Michael Drayton
NEAR to the silver Trent
SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
Auld Robin Gray, by Lady Anne Lindsay
WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
Written in Northampton County Asylum, by John Clare
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
Red Roses, by Anne Christian
These red tears run down my wrists, falling onto a forgotten floor, laying in a pool of lost hope.
And it could have been a maddened angel who stole the virgins fate. No one will ever know, because no one ever cared.
And these red petals will continue to fill my outstretched palms, the thorns my back.
And I will transcend into oblivion, nothing more than an evaporating mist.
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