Poem Lake | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Her Picture Autumn was cold in Plymouth town; The wind ran round the shore, Now softly passing up and down, Now wild and fierce and fleet, Wavering overhead, Moaning in the narrow street As one beside the dead. The leaves of... Poet: Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz	An Unpraised Picture I saw a picture once by Angelo. “Unfinished,” said the critic; “done in youth;” And that was all, no thought of praise, forsooth! He was informed, and doubtless it was so. And yet, I let an hour of dreaming go The way of all time, touched to tears and ruth... Poet: Richard Burton	On the Picture of an Infant From the Greek by Samuel Rogers Playing near a Precipice WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, See, to the last, last verge her infant steals! O, fly—yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.— ... Poet: Leonidas of Alexandria	My Mother’s Picture Out of Norfolk, the Gift of My Cousin, Ann Bodham O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine,—thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails,... Poet: William Cowper
A Picture The Farmer sat in his easy-chair, Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care, Was clearing the dinner away; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, On her grandfather’s knee was catching flies. The old man laid his... Poet: Charles Gamage Eastman	A Picture of Death From “The Giaour” HE who hath bent him o’er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay’s effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)... Poet: Lord Byron	Portia’s Picture From “The Merchant of Venice,” Act III. Sc. 2. FAIR Portia’s counterfeit? What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are severed lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a... Poet: William Shakespeare	I would not paint — a picture — I would not paint — a picture — I'd rather be the One Its bright impossibility To dwell — delicious — on — And wonder how the fingers feel Whose rare — celestial — stir — Evokes so sweet a Torment — ... Poet:
On a picture of Harvey Birch I know not if thy noble worth My country's annals claim, For in her brief, bright history I have not read thy name. I know not if thou e'er didst live; ... Poet:	On a picture of my father I strive in vain those features to restore To Memory's faded tablets, which on me, From the mute ivory, beam so lovingly, And to recall their living light once more. In vain I... Poet: