Poem Lake | Page 3 | The Greatest Poems of All Time

“’T is the last rose of summer” From “Irish Melodies” ’T IS the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud, is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! ... Poet: Thomas Moore	As Sleigh Bells seem in summer As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show — So fairy — so fictitious The individuals do Repealed from observation — A Party that we knew — More distant in an instant Than Dawn... Poet:	As Summer into Autumn slips As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not ... Poet:	Consulting summer's clock, Consulting summer's clock, But half the hours remain. I ascertain it with a shock — I shall not look again. The second half of joy Is shorter than the first. The truth I do not dare to know I... Poet:
Further in Summer than the Birds Further in Summer than the Birds - Pathetic from the Grass - A minor Nation celebrates It's unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen - So gradual the Grace A gentle Custom it becomes - ... Poet:	I know a place where Summer strives I know a place where Summer strives With such a practised Frost — She — each year — leads her Daisies back — Recording briefly — "Lost" — But when the South Wind stirs the Pools And struggles in the lanes —... Poet:	Indian Summer (Botta) O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year, Though in thy bowers the roses all lie dead, And from thy woods the song of birds has fled, And winter, stern and cold, is hovering near; ... Poet:	It can't be "Summer"! It can't be "Summer"! That — got through! It's early — yet — for "Spring"! There's that long town of White — to cross — Before the Blackbirds sing! It can't be "Dying"! It's too Rouge — The... Poet:
It will be Summer — eventually. It will be Summer — eventually. Ladies — with parasols — Sauntering Gentlemen — with Canes — And little Girls — with Dolls — Will tint the pallid landscape — As 'twere a bright Bouquet — Tho' drifted... Poet:	So much Summer So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate — Would a Smile's minute bestowing Too exorbitant To the Lady With the Guinea Look — if She should know Crumb of Mine A... Poet: