Poetry Books

The Spirit of William Shakespeare,sore vexed of them who say that in hisSonnets he writ not from the truth ofhis heart but from the toyings of hisbrain, and that he devised but a feignedobject to fit a feigned affection, hereinmaketh answer, renewing as best ashadow may that rhyme wherein hewas more excellent in theliving body I THE wise world saith I not unlock’d my heartWhen I of thee and thy dear... more...

THE BASEMENT When Fritz, the Janitor's bad kid, Went snooping in the basement, He found a rocket snugly hid Beneath the window casement. He struck a match with one fell swoop; Then, on the concrete kneeling, He lit the rocket and—she—oop! It shot up through the ceiling. [pg] [pg] The Steiners on the floor above Of breakfast were partaking; Crash! came the rocket, unannounced, And set them all... more...

The shades of night were falling fast,As through an Eastern village passedA youth who bore, through dust and heat,A stencil-plate, that read complete—“SAPOLIO.” CLEAN PAINT, OIL CLOTHS, FLOORS,WOOD WORK, TABLES & SHELVES with Sapolio. His brow was sad, but underneath,White with “Odonto” shone his teeth,And through them hissed the words, “Well, blowMe tight if here is ’ary... more...

ANNIE'S GARDEN.   In little Annie's garden    Grew all sorts of posies;  There were pinks, and mignonette,    And tulips, and roses.   Sweet peas, and morning glories,    A bed of violets blue,  And marigolds, and asters,    In Annie's garden grew.   There the bees went for honey,    And the humming-birds too;  And there the pretty butterflies    And... more...

Rupert Brooke was both fair to see and winning in his ways. There was at the first contact both bloom and charm; and most of all there was life. To use the word his friends describe him by, he was "vivid". This vitality, though manifold in expression, is felt primarily in his sensations — surprise mingled with delight — "One after one, like tasting a sweet food." This is life's... more...

Under the window is my garden, Where sweet, sweet flowers grow; And in the pear-tree dwells a robin, The dearest bird I know. Tho' I peep out betimes in the morning, Still the flowers are up the first; Then I try and talk to the robin, And perhaps he'd chat—if he durst.13 Will you be my little wife, If I ask you? Do! I'll buy you such a Sunday frock, A nice umbrella, too. And you shall... more...

PART I.HRO' scented meadows, where do grazeThe meek-eyed kine on summer days,At early morn swept Daisy Dare,—Sparkling, graceful, passing fair.Sparkling as the dew-drops gleamingOn her path, or sunlight streamingThrough her tresses—graceful, fair,As naught on earth save Daisy Dare! Wondrous tresses! sunshine fadesMid floating curls and sumptuous braids,—A crown of light that glorifiesWhite... more...

I Out of the little chapel I burst  Into the fresh night-air again.Five minutes full, I waited first  In the doorway, to escape the rainThat drove in gusts down the common's centre  At the edge of which the chapel stands,Before I plucked up heart to enter.  Heaven knows how many sorts of handsReached past me, groping for the latchOf the inner door that hung on catchMore obstinate the more... more...

CANTO XXVI While singly thus along the rim we walk'd,Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well.Avail it that I caution thee."  The sunNow all the western clime irradiate chang'dFrom azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd,My passing shadow made the umber'd flameBurn ruddier.  At so strange a sight I mark'dThat many a spirit marvel'd on his way. This bred... more...

THE OLD HANGING FORK.I.O don't you remember those days so divine,Around which the heart-strings all tenderly twine,When with sapling pole and a painted corkWe fished up and down the old Hanging Fork—From the railroad bridge, with its single span,Clear down to the mill at Dawson's old dam—From early morn till the shades of night,And it made no difference if fishdidn'tbite?II.What... more...