You are here: Index  Art, Music, Poetry! 
Poems by Great PoetsTiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Three Things To Remember By William Blake A Robin Redbreast in a cage, Puts all Heaven in a rage. A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men. Power Of Music By William Wordsworth An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old; Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. His station is there; and he works on the crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and loud; He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him? What an eager assembly! what an empire is this! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest; And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest. As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste, What matter! he's caught, and his time runs to waste; The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret; And the half-breathless Lamplighter, he's in the net! The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees! He stands, backed by the wall; he abates not his din His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there! The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band; I am glad for him, blind as he is! all the while If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight; Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour! That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs, they care not for you, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue! Proud Were Ye, Mountains, When, In Times Of Old By William Wordsworth Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar: Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold, That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold, And clear way made for her triumphal car Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold! Heard Ye that Whistle? As her long-linked Train Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view? Yes, ye were startled; and, in balance true, Weighing the mischief with the promised gain, Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you To share the passion of a just disdain. Well! Thou Art Happy. By George Gordon Byron Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband's blest - and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass - Oh! how my heart Would hate him if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smil'd, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. I kiss'd it, - and repress'd my sighs Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother's eyes, And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all, - save hope, - the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime - We met, - and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart be still, or break. The Prayer Of Nature By George Gordon Byron Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth! Thy dread Omnipotence I own; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let Superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile. Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to Hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm? Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, Their great Creator's purpose know? Shall those, who live for self alone, Whose years float on in daily crime - Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek, - Thy laws in Nature's works appear; - I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Through trackless realms of aether's space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here, Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence. To Thee, my God, to thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide. If, when this dust to dust's restor'd, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious Name ador'd Inspire her feeble voice to sing! But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the Grave's eternal bed, While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last. Light By John Milton Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav'n first-born, Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, Escap't the Stygian Pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne With other notes then to th' Orphean Lyre I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that rowle in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee Sion and the flowrie Brooks beneath That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget Those other two equal'd with me in Fate, So were I equal'd with them in renown. Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of Ev'n or Morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair Presented with a Universal blanc Of Natures works to mee expung'd and ras'd, And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. On Time By John Milton Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours, Which is no more then what is false and vain, And meerly mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine, With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the supreme Throne Of him, t'whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime, Then all this Earthy grosnes quit, Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time Solitude By Alexander Pope Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield shade, In winter, fire. Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. The Riddle Of The World By Alexander Pope Know then thyself, presume not God to scan The proper study of Mankind is Man. Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A Being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast; In doubt his mind and body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Whether he thinks to little, or too much; Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd; Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd; Created half to rise and half to fall; Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all, Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd; The glory, jest and riddle of the world.
You are here: Index Art, Music, Poetry!
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