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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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To a Cabbage Rose, by Henry Lea Twisleton
Thy clustering leaves are steeped in splendour;
No evening red, no morning dun,
Can show a hue as rich and tender
As thine -- bright lover of the sun!
What wondrous hints of hidden glory,
Rose in the Sun, by Gary R. Smith
When the air moves, the chime sweetly sings,
and the butterfly rises on its soft rosy wings.
The sun bends its ray to dance with the rose
and celebrate with you the path that you chose.
For you chose to join as partner and friend,
The Land o' the Leal, by Carolina, Lady Nairne
I'M wearin' awa', John
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I'm wearin' awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There 's nae sorrow there, John,
Overtones, by William Alexander Percy
I heard a bird at break of day
Sing from the autumn trees
A song so mystical and calm,
So full of certainties,
No man, I think, could listen long
Say not the Struggle Naught availeth, by Arthur Hugh Clough
SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
An Old Colonist's Reverie, by David McKee Wright
Dustily over the highway pipes the loud nor'-wester at morn,
Wind and the rising sun, and waving tussock and corn;
It brings to me days gone by when first in my ears it rang,
The wind is thGraham, Marquis of Montrose
MY dear and only Love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
Than purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part
Soft, Low and Sweet, by Johannes Carl Andersen
Soft, low and sweet, the blackbird wakes the day,
And clearer pipes, as rosier grows the gray
Of the wide sky, far, far into whose deep
The rath lark soars, and scatters down the steep
His runnel song, that skyey roundelay.
Holy Week at Genoa, by Oscar Wilde
I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
Letty's Globe, by Charles Tennyson Turner
WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,
And her young artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,
By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
Jolly Good Ale and Old, by William Stevenson
I CANNOT eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
My Eleventh Hour, by O'Conor
I pray the night falls before I see her face again
The one who wields a rapier of annihilation
Between the mournful howling of troubled winds
My ears twitch as she draws near with a piercing cry
Which cuts through the falling darkness
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