Poetry Books

SeeMeBe(kyndeAgayneMy payneReteyne(in myndeMy swete bloodeOn the roodeDyde the good(my broderMy face ryght redMyn armes spredMy woundes bled(thynke none oderBeholde thou my sydeWounded so ryght wydeBledynge sore that tyde(all for thyn owne sakeThus for the I smertedWhy arte þharde hertedBe by me conuerted(& thy swerynge aslakeTere me nowe no moreMy woundes are soreLeue swerynge therfore(and come to... more...

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. Still the loud death drum, thundering from afar,O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war:To the stern call still Britain bends her ear,Feeds the fierce strife, the alternate hope and fear;Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate,And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state.Colossal Power with overwhelming force [2]Bears down each fort of Freedom in its... more...

I. BEFORE THE WAR Before the WarEFORE the war," she sighs. "Before the war."Then blinks 'er eyes, an' tries to work a smile."Ole scenes," she sez, "don't look the same no more.Ole ways," she sez, "seems to 'ave changed their style,The pleasures that we 'ad don't seem worth while--Them simple joys that passed an hour away--An' troubles,... more...

QUEEN BERNGERD Long ere the Sun the heaven arrayed,For her morning gift her Lord she prayed:“Give me Samsoe to have and to hold,And from every maiden a crown of gold.”   Woe befall her, Berngerd. The King he answered Berngerd thus:“Madam, crave something less of us,For many a maid lives ’neath our swayTo ’scape from death could the like not pay.”   Woe befall her, Berngerd. “My gentle... more...

THE CULPRIT FAY. “My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!   “Instead of Anster’s turnip-bearing vales“I see old fairy land’s miraculous show!   “Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales,“Her Ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,   “And fairies, swarming—” Tennant’s Anster Fair. I. ’Tis the middle watch of a summer’s night—The earth is dark, but... more...

SONGS OF DESIRE I'd like to be a gypsyWith gold rings in my ears,Along the road to sit and sing,And not do another thingFor years and years; A road to dream upon by day,A fire for dreams at night,Free to wander far away,Free to shout and free to play,Quite impolite. I'd pitch my tent beside a wall,All apple trees within,And if the apples didn't fall,I wouldn't hesitate at... more...

ENTHUSIASM.Oh for the spirit which inspired of oldThe seer's prophetic song—the voice that spakeThrough Israel's warrior king. The strains that burstIn thrilling tones from Zion's heaven-strung harp,Float down the tide of ages, shedding lightOn pagan shores and nations far remote:Eternal as the God they celebrate,Their fame shall last when Time's long race is run,And you refulgent... more...

DEAR TOM—Allow me to request you to introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable family of the Fudges. Although he may fall short of those very considerable personages in the more active properties which characterize the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect that even you, their historian, will confess that he surpasses them in the more peculiarly legitimate qualification of intolerable dulness. You know... more...

INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES Ah, these jasminesAh, who was it coloured that little frockBless this little heartChild, how happy you are sitting in the dustCome and hire meDay by day I float my paper boatsI am small because I am a little childIf baby only wanted to, he could flyIf I were only a little puppyIf people came to know where my king's palace isI long to go over thereImagine, motherI only... more...

EPISTLE TO THE REV. J--- B---, WHILST JOURNEYING FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH. When warm’d with zeal, my rustic MuseFeels fluttering fain to tell her news,And paint her simple, lowly views      With all her art,And, though in genius but obtuse,      May touch the heart. Of palaces and courts of kingsShe thinks but little, never sings,But wildly strikes her uncouth strings      In... more...