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The Approach of Age |
William Shakespeare |
1584 |
English |
Sonnet Xii.
when I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat... |
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The Arab |
Charles Stuart Calverley |
1851 |
English |
ON, on, my brown Arab, away, away!
Thou hast trotted o’er many a mile to-day,
And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare
Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair,
To tread with those echoless, unshod feet
Yon weltering flats in the... |
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The Arab to his Favorite Steed |
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah |
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English |
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed;
I may not mount on thee again,—thou ’rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that... |
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The Arab to the Palm |
Bayard Taylor |
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English |
Next to thee, O fair gazelle,
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;
Next to ye both, I love the palm,
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;
Next to ye both, I... |
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The Arid Lands |
Herbert Bashford |
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English |
These lands are clothed in burning weather,
These parched lands pant for God’s cool rain;
I look away where strike together
The burnished sky and barren plain.
I look away; no green thing gladdens
My weary eye—no flower, no tree,
Naught... |
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The Armorer's Song |
Harry Bache Smith |
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English |
1
let hammer on anvil ring,
And the forge fire brightly shine;
Let wars rage still,
While I work with a will
At this peaceful trade of mine.
The sword is a weapon to conquer fields;
I honor the man who shakes it:... |
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The Arrow and the Song |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
1827 |
English |
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong... |
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The Arsenal at Springfield |
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
1827 |
English |
This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise—how wild and dreary—
When the death-angel... |
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The Art of Book-Keeping |
Thomas Hood |
1819 |
English |
How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, thus lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks—
Who call and take some favorite tome,
But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home
... |
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The Art of Poetry |
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A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind;
There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains;
Not the first head of inexperienced brains.
Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage
Of... |
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The Artist |
Arthur Grissom |
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English |
He wrought with patience long and weary years
Upon his masterpiece, entitled “Fate,”
And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his crust he ate,
And gave his work his soul, his strength, and tears.
His task complete at last, he had no fears
The world would not... |
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The Artist |
Arthur Grissom |
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English |
He wrought with patience long and weary years
Upon his masterpiece, entitled “Fate,”
And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his crust he ate,
And gave his work his soul, his strength, and tears.
His task complete at last, he had no fears
The world would not... |
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The Ascent of Man |
Rossiter Worthington Raymond |
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English |
He stood upon the earth, and turned
To gaze on sky and land and sea,
While in his ear the whisper burned,
“Behold, these all belong to thee!”
O wondrous call to conquests new!
O thrill of blood! O joy of Soul!
O peaks with ever-widening... |
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The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 1/Beatrice |
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English |
How was I worthy so divine a loss,
Deepening my midnights, kindling all my morns?
Why waste such precious wood to make my cross,
Such far-sought roses for my crown of thorns?
... |
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The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 1/La Cantatrice |
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She meets me there, so strangely fair
That my soul aches with a happy pain;—
A pressure, a touch of her true lips, such
As a seraph might give and take again;
A hurried whisper, "Adieu! adieu!
...
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The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 3/Bringing Our Sheaves with Us |
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English |
The time for toil is past, and night has come,—
The last and saddest of the harvest-eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.... |
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The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 5/The Cup |
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The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 7/All's Well |
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English |
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The Auctioneer of Parting |
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English |
The Auctioneer of Parting
His "Going, going, gone"
Shouts even from the Crucifix,
And brings his Hammer down —
He only sells the Wilderness,
The prices of Despair
Range from a single human Heart
... |
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The Auld Folks |
Andrew Park |
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English |
The Auld folks sit by the fire,
When the winter nichts are chill;
The auld wife she plies her wire,
The auld man he quaffs his yill.
An’ meikle an’ lang they speak
O’ their youthful days gane by,
When the rose it was on the cheek,
... |
