English Poems – Page 98

More English Poems

• Seaward

  How long it seems since that mild April night,
  When, leaning from the window, you and I
  Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight, …

  Celia Thaxter

• The Sandpiper

  Across the narrow beach we flit,
  One little sandpiper and I,
  And fast I gather, bit by bit, …

  Celia Thaxter

• May Morning

  Warm, wild, rainy wind, blowing fitfully,
  Stirring dreamy breakers on the slumberous May sea,
  What shall fail to answer thee? What thing shall withstand …

  Celia Thaxter

• My Queen

  He loves not well whose love is bold!
  I would not have thee come too nigh:
  The sun’s gold would not seem pure gold …

  William Winter

• Asleep

  He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night,
  And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white,
  And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told how the heart can weep, …

  William Winter

• The Night Watch

  Beneath the midnight moon of May,
  Through dusk on either hand,
  One sheet of silver spreads the bay, …

  William Winter

• On the Verge

  Out in the dark it throbs and glows—
  The wide, wild sea, that no man knows!
  The wind is chill, the surge is white, …

  William Winter

• Adelaide Neilson

  And oh, to think the sun can shine,
  The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom,
  And she, whose soul was all divine, …

  William Winter

• Arthur

  I
  white sail upon the ocean verge,
  Just crimsoned by the setting sun, …

  William Winter

• The Passing Bell at Stratford

  Sweet bell of Stratford, tolling slow,
  In summer gloaming’s golden glow,
  I hear and feel thy voice divine, …

  William Winter

• I - H. B. by William Winter

  The dirge is sung, the ritual said,
  No more the brooding organ weeps,
  And, cool and green, the turf is spread …

• Unwritten Poems

  Fairy spirits of the breeze—
  Frailer nothing is than these.
  Fancies born we know not where— …

  William Winter

• After Wings

  This was your butterfly, you see,—
  His fine wings made him vain:
  The caterpillars crawl, but he …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• My Babes in the Wood

  I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder,
  Than any story painted in your books.
  You are so glad? It will not make you gladder; …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• The Witch in the Glass

  “my mother says I must not pass
  Too near that glass;
  She is afraid that I will see …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• Tradition of Conquest

  His grace of Marlborough, legends say,
  Though battle-lightnings proved his worth,
  Was scathed like others, in his day, …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• The Watch of a Swan

  I read somewhere that a swan, snow-white,
  In the sun all day, in the moon all night,
  Alone by a little grave would sit …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• In Clonmel Parish Churchyard

  Where the graves were many, we looked for one.
  Oh, the Irish rose was red,
  And the dark stones saddened the setting sun …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• A Call on Sir Walter Raleigh

  “ay, not at home, then, didst thou say?
  —And, prithee, hath he gone to court?”
  “Nay; he hath sailed but yesterday, …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

• An Irish Wild-Flower

  She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can,
  Through her bright fluttering rags, the dark, the cold.
  Some farthest star, remembering what man …

  Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

Page 98 of 341