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A dozen poems
For March 8, 2014A version friendly to printer and palmtop
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An Invitation, by Alfred Domett
Well! if Truth be all welcomed with hardy reliance,
All the lovely unfoldings of luminous Science,
All that Logic can prove or disprove be avowed:
Is there room for no faith -- though such Evil intrude --
In the dominance still of a Spirit of Good?
Beautiful Stranger, by Dysanne Allister R. Cuaresma
As I struggled I didn't see
This beautiful stranger watching over me.
I have loved and had my heart broken;
And nobody dared break this door open.
I locked it up with pain and fear,
To Celia, by Ben Jonson
DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
The Flowers, by William Brighty Rands
WHEN Love arose in heart and deed
To wake the world to greater joy,
'What can she give me now?' said Greed,
Who thought to win some costly toy.
He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd;
A Quiet Soul, by John Oldham
THY soul within such silent pomp did keep,
As if humanity were lull'd asleep;
So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,
Time's unheard feet scarce make less noise,
Or the soft journey which a planet goes:
Wooing Song, by Giles Fletcher
LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows:
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
In the Mushroom Meadows, by Thomas Walsh
Sun on the dewy grasslands where late the frost hath shone,
And lo, what elfin cities are these we come upon!
What pigmy domes and thatches, what Arab caravan,
What downy-roofed pagodas that have known no touch of man!
Are these the oldtime meadows? Yes, the wildgrape scents the air;
The Faithless Shepherdess, by William Byrd
WHILE that the sun with his beams hot
Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain
In shadow of a green oak tree,
An Old Colonist's Reverie, by David McKee Wright
Dustily over the highway pipes the loud nor'-wester at morn,
Wind and the rising sun, and waving tussock and corn;
It brings to me days gone by when first in my ears it rang,
The wind is the voice of my home, and I think of the songs it sang
When, fresh from the desk and ledger, I crossed the long leagues of sea --
The Dominion of Australia (A Forecast, 1877), by James Brunton Stephens
She is not yet; but he whose ear
Thrills to that finer atmosphere
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Reverberant of days to be,
Are heard in forecast echoings,
Fairyland, by Mrs. James Glenny Wilson
Do you remember that careless band,
Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand,
One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine,
Joyously seeking for fairyland?
The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard,
Untitled, by Pyr3
Putting on a mask
Winter comes after summer
Wishing for true joy
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