Poetry Books

THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET.Found in the garden—dead in his beauty.Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.Bury him kindly—up in the corner;Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,Waving her tail like a plume in the air.Bury him nobly—next to the donkey;Fetch the old... more...

I    [Bass drum beaten loudly.]  Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—  (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)  The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come."  (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)  Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,  Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank,  Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale—  Minds still... more...

SYMBOLISMTongueless the bell!Lute without a song!It is not nightIt is God's dawn,Silence its unending song.Over heart's valley,In the soul's night,Through pain's windowBehold! His light!On Life's Height.No prayer, now,Though death-waves roll,Faith's candle lit,Beside it sits the soulReading Eternity's scroll. SOURCE OF SINGINGA bruised heart,A wounded soul,A broken... more...

THE ROCK-A-BY LADY The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby streetComes stealing; comes creeping;The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,When she findeth you sleeping! There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,And lo! thick and fast... more...

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. PART I. At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,Whoever will choose to repair,Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriorsMay haply fall in with old Pierre.On the sunshiny bench of a tavernHe sits and he prates of old wars,And moistens his pipe of tobaccoWith a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,And as long as his tap never fails,Thus over his... more...

CANTO XIII ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank,We enter'd on a forest, where no trackOf steps had worn a way.  Not verdant thereThe foliage, but of dusky hue; not lightThe boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'dAnd matted thick: fruits there were none, but thornsInstead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these,Less intricate the brakes, wherein abideThose animals, that... more...

INTRODUCTION Professor Elizabeth Story Donno, in her recent (New York, 1963), has made an important contribution to both scholarship and teaching. Not only has she brought together for the first time in one volume most of the extant Elizabethan minor epics, but in so doing, she has hastened the recognition that the minor epic, or "epyllion" as it has often been called in modern times,[] is a... more...

THE BROOK.I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make sudden sallyAnd sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And... more...

ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON   THOU couldst not look on me and live: so runs  The mortal legend—thou that couldst not live  Nor look on me (so the divine decree)!  That saw'st me in the cloud, the wave, the bough,  The clod commoved with April, and the shapes  Lurking 'twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark.  Mocked I thee not in every guise of life,  Hid in girls' eyes, a naiad in... more...

ROSAMUND. His blew His winds, and they were scattered. 'One soweth and another reapeth.'                                     Ay,Too true, too true. One soweth—unawareCometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams—Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his bosomAs 't were between the dewfall and the dawnBears it away. Who other was to blame?Is it I? Is it... more...