Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and
Ballad of a Ship
Down by the flash of the restless water The dim White Ship like a white bird lay; Laughing at life and the world they sought her, And out she swung to the silvering bay.
Monadnock through the Trees
Before there was in Egypt any sound Of those who reared a more prodigious means For the self-heavy sleep of kings and queens Than hitherto had mocked the most renowned,- Unvisioned here and waiting
How Annandale Went Out
“They called it Annandale-and I was there To flourish, to find words, and to attend: Liar, physician, hypocrite, and friend, I watched him; and the sight was not so fair As one or two
Walt Whitman
The master-songs are ended, and the man That sang them is a name. And so is God A name; and so is love, and life, and death, And everything. But we, who are too
The Dark House
Where a faint light shines alone, Dwells a Demon I have known. Most of you had better say “The Dark House,” and go your way. Do not wonder if I stay. For I know
The Mill
The miller’s wife had waited long, The tea was cold, the fire was dead; And there might yet be nothing wrong In how he went and what he said: “There are no millers any
Momus
“Where’s the need of singing now?” Smooth your brow, Momus, and be reconciled. For king Kronos is a child Child and father, Or god rather, And all gods are wild. “Who reads Byron any
Rembrandt to Rembrandt
(AMSTERDAM, 1645) And there you are again, now as you are. Observe yourself as you discern yourself In your discredited ascendency; Without your velvet or your feathers now, Commend your new condition to your
For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold
Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, He wakes lost echoes from song’s classic shore, And brings their crystal cadence back once more To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land Where
The House on the Hill
They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill: They are all gone away. Nor
Alma Mater
He knocked, and I beheld him at the door A vision for the gods to verify. “What battered ancient is this,” thought I, “And when, if ever, did we meet before?” But ask him
The Companion
Let him answer as he will, Or be lightsome as he may, Now nor after shall he say Worn-out words enough to kill, Or to lull down by their craft, Doubt, that was born
Fragment
Faint white pillars that seem to fade As you look from here are the first one sees Of his house where it hides and dies in a shade Of beeches and oaks and hickory
The Dead Village
Here there is death. But even here, they say, Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon As desolate as ever the dead moon Did glimmer on dead Sardis, men were gay; And there