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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Araluen, by Henry Kendall
Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep
Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.
Put the blossom close to baby -- kneel with me, my love, and pray;
We must leave the bird we've buried -- say good-bye to her to-day;
In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands,
My Missing Yawn, by Izzy A. Tripper
Last night when I went to bed,
I'm quite sure I had a yawn,
But in the morning when I woke up
I found that it was gone.
That pesky critter just disappeared
To His Forsaken Mistress, by Sir Robert Ayton
I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could move, had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone
Autumn, by Jean Start Untermeyer
(For my Mother)
How memory cuts away the years,
And how clean the picture comes
Of autumn days, brisk and busy;
Charged with keen sunshine.
I loved a Lass, by George Wither
I LOVED a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
The Holy Tide, by Frederick Tennyson
THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
Jessie, by Thomas Edward Brown
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,
And yields the golden keys,
Then is it as if God caress'd
Twin babes upon His knees--
Twin babes that, each to other press'd,
A Jacobite's Epitaph, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay
TO my true king I offer'd free from stain
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languish'd in a foreign clime,
Wooing Song, by Giles Fletcher
LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows:
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
Grieve not, Ladies, by Anna Hempstead Branch
Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night
Ye wake to feel your beauty going.
It was a web of frail delight,
Inconstant as an April snowing.
In other eyes, in other lands,
The Moon, by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
Into a Precipice, by Oyown
Sitting upon a precipice,
Created by the running river
That comes and goings beyond the horizons,
The sun adorning the ripening sky
Without friend to be accompanied by
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