Epitaph Of A Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success

Beneath this sod lie the remains
Of one who died of growing pains.

by Amy Lowell.

Du er Poet,
Du er Prophet,
Du er En, jeg aldrig har seet;
Men fra Hoved til Fødder
Er Du proppet med Lykkens Nødder.

by Hans Christian Andersen.

Why Do Ye Call The Poet Lonely

Why do ye call the poet lonely,
Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.

by Archibald Lampman.

The Poet’s Epitaph Upon Himself

He ate and drank, was never glad,
His boot heels he wore down one side;
Ambition – that he never had,
And finally just upped and died.

by Johan Herman Wessel.

Adair Welcker, Poet

The Swan of Avon died-the Swan
Of Sacramento'll soon be gone;
And when his death-song he shall coo,
Stand back, or it will kill you too.

by Ambrose Bierce.

Stanza From An Early Poem

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

by Christopher Pearse Cranch.

SHE comes like the hush and beauty of the night,
And sees too deep for laughter;
Her touch is a vibration and a light
From worlds before and after.

by Edwin Markham.

Who hath beheld the goddess face to face,
Blind with her beauty, all his days shall go
Climbing lone mountains towards her temple's place,
Weighed with song's sweet, inexorable woe.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Poet And Priest.

The poet's born, the priest is made: at last
Shall come a day when all men at the shrine
Of poesy shall pay their vows, and know
The oracles of Nature are divine,
And but the inspired have authority.

by Robert Crawford.

Poetry And Prose

What is the true difference ’twixt Prose and Rhyme,
Since both may be beautiful, both be sublime?
Nor in subject, nor treatment, nor passion it ’bides—
But breathes through a certain rich something besides.

by Charles Harpur.

Upon An Eunuch; A Poet. Fragment

Nec sterilem te crede; Licet, mulieribus exul,
Falcem virginiae nequeas immitere messi,
Et nostro peccare modo. Tibi Fama perenne
Praegnabit; rapiesque novem de monse Sorores;
Et pariet modulos Echo repetita Nepotes.

by Andrew Marvell.

The Poetry Of Southey

Keen as an eagle whose flight towards the dim empyrean
Fearless of toil or fatigue ever royally wends!
Vast in the cloud-coloured robes of the balm-breathing Orient
Lo! the grand Epic advances, unfolding the humanest truth.

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Shelley

See'st thou a Skylark whose glistening winglets ascending
Quiver like pulses beneath the melodious dawn?
Deep in the heart-yearning distance of heaven it flutters -
Wisdom and beauty and love are the treasures it brings down at eve.

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Coleridge

A brook glancing under green leaves, self-delighting, exulting,
And full of a gurgling melody ever renewed -
Renewed thro' all changes of Heaven, unceasing in sunlight,
Unceasing in moonlight, but hushed in the beams of the holier orb.

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Milton

Like to some deep-chested organ whose grand inspiration,
Serenely majestic in utterance, lofty and calm,
Interprets to mortals with melody great as its burthen
The mystical harmonies chiming for ever throughout the bright

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Keats

The song of a nightingale sent thro' a slumbrous valley,
Low-lidded with twilight, and tranced with the dolorous sound,
Tranced with a tender enchantment; the yearning of passion
That wins immortality even while panting delirious with death.

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Wordsworth

A breath of the mountains, fresh born in the regions majestic,
That look with their eye-daring summits deep into the sky.
The voice of great Nature; sublime with her lofty conceptions,
Yet earnest and simple as any sweet child of the green lowly vale.

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Chaucer

Grey with all honours of age! but fresh-featured and ruddy
As dawn when the drowsy farm-yard has thrice heard Chaunticlere.
Tender to tearfulness--childlike, and manly, and motherly;
Here beats true English blood richest joyance on sweet English

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Spenser

Lakes where the sunsheen is mystic with splendour and softness;
Vales where sweet life is all Summer with golden romance:
Forests that glimmer with twilight round revel-bright palaces;
Here in our May-blood we wander, careering 'mongst ladies and

by George Meredith.

The Poetry Of Shakespeare

Picture some Isle smiling green 'mid the white-foaming ocean; -
Full of old woods, leafy wisdoms, and frolicsome fays;
Passions and pageants; sweet love singing bird-like above it;
Life in all shapes, aims, and fates, is there warm'd by one great
human heart.

by George Meredith.

--My poet the rose of his fancies
Wrought unwritten in verse,
And left but the lilies and pansies
To strew his early hearse.

--The master-dream of your poet
Has perished for ever then?
--What know we? Should we know it
If it were born again?

by Thomas MacDonagh.

Now a stream may be a lady,
Or a gentleman serene,
Who, by sunlit ways and shady,
Graces many a sylvan scene,
But that wild, wild woodman, Snowy
Crude, uncultured, swift to rage,
He's a hill bloke, flash and showy
Roaring down in his rampage......

by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis.

Fragments Of A Lost Gnostic Poem Of The Twelfth Century

Found a family, build a state,
The pledged event is still the same:
Matter in end will never abate
His ancient brutal claim.

Indolence is heaven’s ally here,
And energy the child of hell:
The Good Man pouring from his pitcher clear
But brims the poisoned well.

by Herman Melville.

How I hate those modern Poems
Vaguer, looser than a dream!
Pointless things that look like poems
Only, to some held-back theme!
Wild unequal, agitated,
As by steam ill-regulated -
Balder-dashie steam!
And if (in fine) not super-lyrical,
Then vapid, almost to a miracle.

by Charles Harpur.

A Stanza On Freedom

THEY are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.

by James Russell Lowell.

Live not with thy head showing in the clouds,
Thou art by birth the offspring of this earth,
The stream that passed the sluice cannot again flow back,
Nor can again return the misspent time that sped,
Consider well the deeds of the good and bad,
Whether in this thy profit lieth or in that

by Rahman Baba.

Verse On Lee’s Invasion Of The North

Gen. Lees invasion of the North written by himself—

In eighteen sixty three, with pomp,
and mighty swell,
Me and Jeff’s Confederacy, went
forth to sack Phil-del,
The Yankees the got arter us, and
giv us particular hell,
And we skedaddled back again,
And didn’t sack Phil-del.

by Abraham Lincoln.

GOD to his untaught children sent

Law, order, knowledge, art, from high,
And ev'ry heav'nly favour lent,

The world's hard lot to qualify.
They knew not how they should behave,

For all from Heav'n stark-naked came;
But Poetry their garments gave,

And then not one had cause for shame.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

On A Poet Patriot

His songs were a little phrase
Of eternal song,
Drowned in the harping of lays
More loud and long.

His deed was a single word,
Called out alone
In a night when no echo stirred
To laughter or moan.

But his songs new souls shall thrill,
The loud harps dumb,
And his deed the echoes fill
When the dawn is come.

by Thomas MacDonagh.

On The Margins Of A Poem

The poem
that I chose for you
is simple,
as are all my singing poems.

It has the trace of a veil,
a little balsam,
and a taste of the honey
of lies.

There is also
the coming end of summer
when heat scorches the meadow
and the quick waters
of the river
cease to flow.

Anonymous Submission

by Jiří Mordechai Langer.

Shall I take thee, the Poet said

Shall I take thee, the Poet said
To the propounded word?
Be stationed with the Candidates
Till I have finer tried—

The Poet searched Philology
And when about to ring
For the suspended Candidate
There came unsummoned in—

That portion of the Vision
The Word applied to fill
Not unto nomination
The Cherubim reveal—

by Emily Dickinson.

A Bard's Sweet Song

A bard's sweet song mends ailing constitution.
The harmony's ever-mysterious reign
Will compensate the cumbersome illusion
And curb the sense that's passionate and strained.
The poet's soul, in a verse poured out,
Will be released from all her heavy pines;
And holy poetry will give the world around
And all its purity - to its girlfriend, at once.

by Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky.

L’envoi To A Poem On Tolerance

Go! little Book, thine own disciple be,
And learn to tolerate those who turn from thee.
Or laughed to scorn, or in oblivion sunk,
Go! little Book, and learn to line a trunk.
Some rain-bound traveller, in ennui's despair,
May cast a moment's notice on thee—there.
Thy last sad hope (and pride deserves such shocks)
Like hers—of old—at bottom of a box.

by John Kenyon.

Melancholy Of Jason Kleander, Poet In Kommagini, A.D. 595

The aging of my body and my beauty
is a wound from a merciless knife.
I’m not resigned to it at all.
I turn to you, Art of Poetry,
because you have a kind of knowledge about drugs:
attempts to numb the pain, in Imagination and Language.

It is wound from a merciless knife.
Bring your drugs, Art of Poetry—
they numb the wound at least for a little while.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

On Stephen Duck, The Thresher, And Favourite Poet. A Quibbl

The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q prevail,
The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl.
From threshing Corn, he turns to thresh his Brains;
For which Her My allows him Grains.
Though 'tis confess't, that those who ever saw
His Poems, think them all not worth a Straw.
Thrice happy Duck, employ'd in threshing Stubble!
Thy Toil is lessen'd, and thy Profits double.

by Jonathan Swift.

Spenserian Stanza. Written At The Close Of Canto Ii, Book V, Of

In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took,
And did refit his limbs as heretofore,
And made him read in many a learned book,
And into many a lively legend look;
Thereby in goodly themes so training him,
That all his brutishness he quite forsook,
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim,
The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim.

by John Keats.

He walks with God upon the hills!
And sees, each morn, the world arise
New-bathed in light of paradise.
He hears the laughter of her rills,
Her melodies of many voices,
And greets her while his heart rejoices.
She, to his spirit undefiled,
Makes answer as a little child;
Unveiled before his eyes she stands,
And gives her secrets to his hands.

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Of A Greek Poem

Crave no more that antique rapture
Now in alien song to reach:
Here uncouth you cannot capture
Gracious truth of Attic speech.

Utterly the flowers perish,
Grace of Athens, Rome's renown,
Giving but a dream to cherish
Tangled in a laurel crown.

I that splendour far pursuing
Left unlit the lamps of home,
And upon my quest went ruing
That I found not Greece or Rome.

by Thomas MacDonagh.

To A Modern Poet

Your road is good:
The Parcae are the ugliest faces
Of classical myths. You did not write of them,
But of stone slabs and of human brows
Covered in wrinkles, and of love.

Your verses are to be read in silence
And not before the microphone
Like those of other poets,

The heart
Though under seven layers of skin
Is ice,

Ice Though under seven layers of skin.

by Ndre Mjeda.

I weave my verses of smiles and tears,
Gathered and shed for you,
I bind them up in the hopes of years,
Dear, will you read them through?

I write my ballads of joy and pain,
Cast at your heedless feet,
I set the words to a lost refrain,
Sing it but once, my Sweet!

I breathe my life into rhyme and song,
What shall I gain thereby?
The verse is poor, and the tune is wrong,
Kiss them and let them die.

by Radclyffe Hall.