IX. O Poverty! though from thy haggard eye

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1. Sonnet: O Poverty! Though From Thy Haggard Eye O, Poverty! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft, Thy brow that Hope’s last traces long have left, Vain Fortune’s feeble sons with terror fly; I love thy solitary haunts to seek. For Pity, reckless of her own distress; And Patience, in her pall of wretchedness, That turns to the […]...
2. Your Riches taught me Poverty Your Riches taught me Poverty. Myself a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could boast Till broad as Buenos Ayre You drifted your Dominions A Different Peru And I esteemed All Poverty For Life’s Estate with you Of Mines, I little know myself But just the names, of Gems The Colors of the Commonest And […]...
3. Sonnet 103: Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O, blame me not if I no more can write! Look in your glass, and there appears a face That overgoes my blunt […]...
4. 421. Epitaph on a Lap-dog IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now, half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now, half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies....
5. On Hearing O stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs that glorious harmony; Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high, Worlds without sin or sorrow! Ah, the strain Has died even the last sounds that lingeringly […]...
6. Holy Thursday (Experience) Is this a holy thing to see. In a rich and fruitful land. Babes reduced to misery. Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their […]...
7. 527. Song-Address to the Woodlark O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that wad touch her heart Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard […]...
8. Away, Delights AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling, For I must die. Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling Lie after lie. For ever let me rest now from thy smarts; Alas, for pity go And fire their hearts That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so. Never again deluding love shall know […]...
9. THANKS HER griefs were the hours When my struggle was sore, Her joys were the powers That the climber upbore. Her home is the boundless Free ocean that seems To rock, calm and soundless, My galleon of dreams. Half hers are the glancing Creations that throng With pageant and dancing The ways of my song. My […]...
10. Poverty And Wealth The stork flew over a town one day, And back of each wing an infant lay; One to a rich man’s home he brought, And one he left at a labourer’s cot. The rich man said, ‘My son shall be A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.’ The labourer sighed, ”Tis the good God’s will […]...
11. I. Written at Tinemouth, Northumberland, after a Tempestuous Voyage AS slow I climb the cliff’s ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past When o’er the dark wave rode the howling blast Pleas’d I look back, and view the tranquil tide, That laves the pebbled shore; and now the beam Of evening smiles on the grey battlement, And yon forsaken tow’r, that […]...
12. Lines Indited With All The Depravity Of Poverty One way to be very happy is to be very rich For then you can buy orchids by the quire and bacon by the flitch. And yet at the same time People don’t mind if you only tip them a dime, Because it’s very funny But somehow if you’re rich enough you can get away […]...
13. If I were dead ‘IF I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’ The dear lips quiver’d as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! […]...
14. The City of Sleep “The Brushwood Boy” The Day’s Work Over the edge of the purple down, Where the single lamplight gleams, Know ye the road to the Merciful Town That is hard by the Sea of Dreams Where the poor may lay their wrongs away, And the sick may forget to weep? But we pity us! Oh, pity […]...
15. Croquis The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, He groped and fiddled doggedly along, His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng The stony peevishness of sightless men. He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, You hardly […]...
16. She could not live upon the Past She could not live upon the Past The Present did not know her And so she sought this sweet at last And nature gently owned her The mother that has not a knell For either Duke or Robin...
17. Genius Genius, like gold and precious stones, Is chiefly prized because of its rarity. Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild, Incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility, And get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter. Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres Far above the vulgar world and fills his soul With regal contempt for […]...
18. The Broken Heart He is stark mad, who ever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should […]...
19. 500. Song-Craigieburn Wood (Second Version) SWEET fa’s the eve on Craigieburn, And blythe awakes the morrow; But a’ the pride o’ Spring’s return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And Care his bosom wringing! Fain, fain would I my griefs […]...
20. Robert Burns Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr, There’s but few poets can with you compare; Some of your poems and songs are very fine: To “Mary in Heaven” is most sublime; And then again in your “Cottar’s Saturday Night,” Your genius there does shine most bright, As pure as the dewdrops of the night. Your “Tam O’Shanter” […]...
21. My Inner Life ‘Tis true my garments threadbare are, And sorry poor I seem; But inly I am richer far Than any poet’s dream. For I’ve a hidden life no one Can ever hope to see; A sacred sanctuary none May share with me. Aloof I stand from out the strife, Within my heart a song; By virtue […]...
22. Psalm 69 part 2 v.14-21,26,29,32 C. M. The passion and exaltation of Christ. Now let our lips with holy fear And mournful pleasure sing The suff’rings of our great High Priest, The sorrows of our King. He sinks in floods of deep distress; How high the waters rise! While to his heav’nly Father’s ear He sends perpetual cries. “Hear […]...
23. Psalm 82 God in the *great *assembly stands *Bagnadath-el Of Kings and lordly States, Among the gods* on both his hands. *Bekerev. He judges and debates. How long will ye *pervert the right *Tishphetu With *judgment false and wrong gnavel. Favouring the wicked by your might, Who thence grow bold and strong? *Regard the *weak and fatherless […]...
24. Virginity My mother she had children five and four are dead and gone; While I, least worthy to survive, persist in living on. She looks at me, I must confess, sometimes with spite and bitterness. My mother is three-score and ten, while I am forty-three, You don’t know how it hurts me when we go somewhere […]...
25. 395. Sonnet on the Author's Birthday SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, ‘mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if […]...
26. Sonnet 05 Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek, And thy mild eye was eloquent to […]...
27. 157. Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods at Edinburgh WHEN, by a generous Public’s kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted-honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor’s lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue’s glow, But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe? Poor is the task to please a barb’rous throng, It needs […]...
28. A Canvas For A Crust Aye, Montecelli, that’s the name. You may have heard of him perhaps. Yet though he never savoured fame, Of those impressionistic chaps, Monet and Manet and Renoir He was the avatar. He festered in a Marseilles slum, A starving genius, god-inspired. You’d take him for a lousy bum, Tho’ poetry of paint he lyred, In […]...
29. Psalm 41 v.1-8 L. M. Charity to the poor; or, Pity to the afflicted. Blest is the man whose bowels move, And melt with pity to the poor; Whose soul, by sympathizing love, Feels what his fellow saints endure. His heart contrives for their relief More good than his own hands can do; He, in the time […]...
30. I Heard an Angel I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, ‘Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world’s release.’ Thus he sung all day Over the new mown hay, Till the sun went down And haycocks looked brown. I heard a Devil curse Over the heath and the furze, ‘Mercy could be no more, If there was […]...
31. The Two Songs I heard an Angel Singing When the day was springing: “Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world’s release.” So he sang all day Over the new-mown hay, Till the sun went down, And the haycocks looked brown. I heard a devil curse Over the heath and the furse: “Mercy vould be no more If there […]...
32. The Genius Of The Crowd there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average Human being to supply any given army on any given day And the best at murder are those who preach against it And the best at hate are those who preach love And the best at war finally are those who preach peace Those who […]...
33. Freedom on the Wallaby Australia’s a big country An’ Freedom’s humping bluey, An’ Freedom’s on the wallaby Oh! don’t you hear ‘er cooey? She’s just begun to boomerang, She’ll knock the tyrants silly, She’s goin’ to light another fire And boil another billy. Our fathers toiled for bitter bread While loafers thrived beside ’em, But food to eat and […]...
34. TO ROBIN RED-BREAST Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be With leaves and moss-work for to cover me; And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter, Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister! For epitaph, in foliage, next write this: HERE, HERE THE TOMB OF ROBIN HERRICK IS!...
35. Worry About Money Wearing worry about money like a hair shirt I lie down in my bed and wrestle with my angel. My bank-manager could not sanction my continuance for another day But life itself wakes me each morning, and love Urges me to give although I have no money In the bank at this moment, and ought […]...
36. The Widow Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom! She had no home, the world was all before […]...
37. PEACEFUL GROUND Cool Morning spit on bladed grass. A Thousand silky fingers tickling toes. The strong scent of natures freshly cut hair. Mans spiritual stamping groung toward inner Peace....
38. Fata Morgana O sweet illusions of song That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare! I approach and ye vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone; But ever by night and by day, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue […]...
39. In the Street Where the needle-woman toils Through the night with hand and brain, Till the sickly daylight shudders like a spectre at the pain – Till her eyes seem to crawl, And her brain seems to creep – And her limbs are all a-tremble for the want of rest and sleep! It is there the fire-brand blazes […]...
40. 'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy! ‘Tis so much joy! ‘Tis so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw! Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so This side the Victory! Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath! And if indeed I […]...