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Best Famous Sports Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sports poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sports poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sports poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sports poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Ben Jonson | |

Song To Celia

  

V.
— SONG.
— TO CELIA.
             


He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
        5
Suns that set, may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
         10
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ;
Or his easier ears buguile,
So removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,         15
But the sweet theft to reveal :
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.


While we may, the sports of love ;
Time will not be ours for ever :
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
        5
Suns that set, may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
         10
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ;
Or his easier ears buguile,
So removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,         15
But the sweet theft to reveal :
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.


by Ben Jonson | |

To Groom Idiot


LVIII.
 ? TO GROOM IDIOT.
  
IDIOT, last night, I pray'd thee but forbear
To read my verses ;  now I must to hear :
For offering with thy smiles my wit to grace,
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.

And so my sharpness thou no less disjoints,
Than thou didst late my sense, losing my points.

So have I seen, at Christmas-sports, one lost,
And hood-wink'd, for a man embrace a post.



by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

SELF-DECEIT.

 My neighbour's curtain, well I see,

Is moving to and fin.
No doubt she's list'ning eagerly, If I'm at home or no.
And if the jealous grudge I bore And openly confess'd, Is nourish'd by me as before, Within my inmost breast.
Alas! no fancies such as these E'er cross'd the dear child's thoughts.
I see 'tis but the ev'ning breeze That with the curtain sports.
1803.


More great poems below...

by Ezra Pound | |

Nicotine

 Hymn to the Dope


Goddess of the murmuring courts,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Houri of the mystic sports,
trailing-robed in gabardine,
Gliding where the breath hath glided,
Hidden sylph of filmy veils,
Truth behind the dream is veiléd
E'en as thou art, smiling ever, ever gliding,
Wraith of wraiths, dim lights dividing
Purple, grey, and shadow green
Goddess, Dream-grace, Nicotine.
Goddess of the shadow's lights, Nicotine, my Nicotine, Some would set old Earth to rights, Thou I none such ween.
Veils of shade our dream dividing, Houris dancing, intergliding, Wraith of wraiths and dream of faces, Silent guardian of the old unhallowed places, Utter symbol of all old sweet druidings, Mem'ry of witched wold and green, Nicotine, my Nicotine: Neath the shadows of thy weaving Dreams that need no undeceiving, Loves that longer hold me not, Dreams I dream not any more, Fragrance of old sweet forgotten places, Smiles of dream-lit, flit-by faces All as perfume Arab-sweet Deck the high road to thy feet As were Godiva's coming fated And all the April's blush belated Were lain before her, carpeting The stones of Coventry with spring, So thou my mist-enwreathéd queen, Nicotine, white Nicotine, Riding engloried in they hair Mak'st by-road of our dreams Thy thorough-fare.


by Kathleen Raine | |

Far-Darting Apollo

 I saw the sun step like a gentleman
Dressed in black and proud as sin.
I saw the sun walk across London Like a young M.
P.
, risen to the occasion.
His step was light, his tread was dancing, His lips were smiling, his eyes glancing.
Over the Cenotaph in Whitehall The sun took the wicket with my skull.
The sun plays tennis in the court of Geneva With the guts of a Finn and the head of an Emperor.
The sun plays squash in a tomb of marble, The horses of Apocalypse are in his stable.
The sun plays a game of darts in Spain Three by three in flight formation.
The invincible wheels of his yellow car Are the discs that kindle the Chinese war.
The sun shows the world to the world, Turns its own ghost on the terrified crowd, Then plunges all images into the ocean Of the nightly mass emotion.
Games of chance and games of skill, All his sports are games to kill.
I saw the murderer at evening lie Bleeding on his death-bed sky.
His hyacinth breath, his laurel hair, His blinding sight, his moving air, My love, my grief, my weariness, my fears Hid from me in a night of tears.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Poem 20

 BVt let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,
The whiles an hundred little winged loues,
Like diuers fethered doues,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproues,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, & snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through couert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will, For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, Thinks more vpon her paradise of ioyes, Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play, For it will soone be day: Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing, Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.


by Robert William Service | |

The Pigeon Shooting

 They say that Monte Carlo is
A sunny place for shady people;
But I'm not in the gambling biz,
And sober as a parish steeple.
so though this paradisal spot The devil's playground of the rich is, I love it and I love it not, As men may sometimes fall for bitches.
I lazed beneath the sky's blue bliss, The sea swooned with a sequin glimmer; The breeze was shy as maiden kiss, The palms sashayed in silken shimmr.
The peace I soaked in every pore did me more good than ten religions .
.
.
And then: Bang! Bang! my joy was o'er; Says I: "There goes them poor dam pigeons.
" I see them bob from out their traps, the swarded green aroud them ringing; bewildered, full of joy perhaps, With sudden hope of skyway winging.
They blink a moment at the sun, They flutter free of earthy tether .
.
.
A fat man holds a smoking gun, A boy collects some blood and feather.
And so through all the sainted day, Bang! Bang! a bunch of plumage gory.
Five hundred francs they cost to slay, And few there live to tell the story .
.
.
Yet look! there's one so swift to fly, Despite the shots a course he's steering .
.
.
Brave little bird! he's winging high, He's gained the trees - I feel like cheering.
In Monte Carlo's garden glades With dreamful bliss one softly lingers, And lazily in leafy shades The doves pick breadcrumbs from one fingers .
.
.
Bang! Bang! Farewell, oh sylvan courts! Where peace and joy are sweetly blended .
.
.
God curse these lousy Latin sports! My pigeons scat, my dream is ended.


by Robert William Service | |

Beak-Bashing Boy

 But yesterday I banked on fistic fame,
Figgerin' I'd be a champion of the Ring.
Today I've half a mind to quit the Game, For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, Since last night a secondary bout I let a goddam nigger knock me out.
It must have been that T-bone steak I ate; They might have doped it, them smart gambling guys, For round my heart I felt a heavy weight, A stab of pain that should have put me wise.
But oh the cheering of the fans was sweet, And never once I reckoned on defeat.
I had the nigger licked - twice he went down, And there was just another round to go.
I played with him, I made him look a clown, Yet he was game, and traded blow for blow.
And then that piston pain, the dark of doom .
.
.
Like meat they lugged me to my dressing-room.
So that's the pay-off to my bid for fame.
But yesterday my head was in the sky, And now I slink and sag in sorry shame, And hate to look my backers in the eye.
They think I threw the fight; I sorto' feel The ringworms rate me for a lousy heel.
Oh sure I could go on - but gee! it's rough To be a pork-and-beaner at the best; To beg for bouts, yet getting not enough To keep a decent feed inside my vest; To go on canvas-kissing till I come To cadge for drinks just like a Bowery bum.
Hell no! I'll slug my guts out till I die.
I'll be no bouncer in a cheap saloon.
I'll give them swatatorium scribes the lie, I'll make a come-back, aye and pretty soon.
I'll show them tinhorn sports; I'll train and train, I'll hear them cheer - oh Christ! the pain, the PAIN .
.
.
Stable-Boss: "Poor punk! you're sunk - you'll never scrap again.
"


by James Thomson | |

Hymn on Solitude

 Hail, mildly pleasing solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools, and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence, and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky; A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain; A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face: Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom, As, with her Musidora, she, (Her Musidora fond of thee) Amid the long withdrawing vale, Awakes the rival'd nightingale.
Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landskip swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.
Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain; Plain Innocence in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head: Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: About thee sports sweet Liberty; And rapt Urania sings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! And in thy deep recesses dwell! Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise, Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.


by Derek Walcott | |

Blues

 Those five or six young guys
lunched on the stoop
that oven-hot summer night
whistled me over.
Nice and friendly.
So, I stop.
MacDougal or Christopher Street in chains of light.
A summer festival.
Or some saint's.
I wasn't too far from home, but not too bright for a nigger, and not too dark.
I figured we were all one, wop, nigger, jew, besides, this wasn't Central Park.
I'm coming on too strong? You figure right! They beat this yellow nigger black and blue.
Yeah.
During all this, scared on case one used a knife, I hung my olive-green, just-bought sports coat on a fire plug.
I did nothing.
They fought each other, really.
Life gives them a few kcks, that's all.
The spades, the spicks.
My face smashed in, my bloddy mug pouring, my olive-branch jacket saved from cuts and tears, I crawled four flights upstairs.
Sprawled in the gutter, I remember a few watchers waved loudly, and one kid's mother shouting like "Jackie" or "Terry," "now that's enough!" It's nothing really.
They don't get enough love.
You know they wouldn't kill you.
Just playing rough, like young Americans will.
Still it taught me somthing about love.
If it's so tough, forget it.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Cupid And Folly

 CUPID, ere depriv'd of Sight, 
Young and apt for all Delight, 
Met with Folly on the way, 
As Idle and as fond of Play.
In gay Sports the time they pass; Now run, now wrestle on the Grass; Their painted Wings then nimbly ply, And ev'ry way for Mast'ry try: 'Till a Contest do's arise, Who has won th' appointed Prize.
Gentle Love refers the Case To the next, that comes in Place; Trusting to his flatt'ring Wiles, And softens the Dispute with Smiles.
But Folly, who no Temper knows, Words pursues with hotter Blows: 'Till the eyes of Love were lost, Which has such Pain to Mortals cost.
Venus hears his mournful Crys, And repeats 'em, in the Skys, To Jupiter in Council set, With Peers for the Occasion met; In her Arms the Boy she bears, Bathing him in falling Tears; And whilst his want of Eyes is shown, Secures the Judges by her Own.
Folly to the Board must come, And hear the Tryal and the Doom; Which Cytherea loudly prays May be as heavy as the Case: Which, when All was justly weigh'd, Cupid's Wings now useless made, That a staff, his Feet must guide, Which wou'd still be apt to slide; This Decree at last was read, That Love by Folly shou'd be lead.


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Lung Fish

 The Honorable Ardleigh Wyse 
Was every fisherman's despair; 
He caught his fish on floating flies, 
In fact he caught them in the air, 
And wet-fly men -- good sports, perhaps -- 
He called "those chuck-and-chance-it chaps".
And then the Fates that sometimes play A joke on such as me and you Deported him up Queensland way To act as a station jackaroo.
The boundary rider said, said he, "You fish dry fly? Well, so do we.
"These barramundi are the blokes To give you all the sport you need: For when the big lagoons and soaks Are dried right down to mud and weed They don't sit there and raise a roar, They pack their traps and come ashore.
"And all these rods and reels you lump Along the creek from day to day Would only give a man the hump Who does his fishing Queensland way.
For when the barramundi's thick We knock 'em over with a stick.
"The black boys on the Darwin side Will fill a creek with bitter leaves And when the fish are stupefied The gins will gather 'em in sheaves.
Now tell me, could a feller wish A finer way of catchin' fish?" The stokehold of the steamship Foam Contains our hero, very sick, A-working of his passage home And brandishing a blue gum stick.
"Behold," says he, "the latest fly; It's called the Great Australian Dry.
"


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

So Long In Coming

 When shall I hear the thrushes sing, 
And see their graceful, round throats swelling? 
When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
The straws and twiglets for their dwelling? 
When shall I hear among the trees
The little martial partridge drumming? 
Oh! Hasten! Sights and sounds that please –
The summer is so long in coming.
The winds are talking with the sun; I hope they will combine together And melt the snow-drifts, one by one, And bring again the golden weather.
Oh, haste, make haste, dear sun and wind, I long to hear the brown bee humming; I seek for blooms I cannot find, The summer is so long in coming.
The winter has been cold, so cold; Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary, And all its sports are stale and old; We wait for something now more cheery.
Come up, O summer, from the south, And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.
We pine for kisses from your mouth! Oh! Do not be so long in coming.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Dance

 See how, like lightest waves at play, the airy dancers fleet;
And scarcely feels the floor the wings of those harmonious feet.
Ob, are they flying shadows from their native forms set free? Or phantoms in the fairy ring that summer moonbeams see? As, by the gentle zephyr blown, some light mist flees in air, As skiffs that skim adown the tide, when silver waves are fair, So sports the docile footstep to the heave of that sweet measure, As music wafts the form aloft at its melodious pleasure, Now breaking through the woven chain of the entangled dance, From where the ranks the thickest press, a bolder pair advance, The path they leave behind them lost--wide open the path beyond, The way unfolds or closes up as by a magic wand.
See now, they vanish from the gaze in wild confusion blended; All, in sweet chaos whirled again, that gentle world is ended! No!--disentangled glides the knot, the gay disorder ranges-- The only system ruling here, a grace that ever changes.
For ay destroyed--for ay renewed, whirls on that fair creation; And yet one peaceful law can still pervade in each mutation.
And what can to the reeling maze breathe harmony and vigor, And give an order and repose to every gliding figure? That each a ruler to himself doth but himself obey, Yet through the hurrying course still keeps his own appointed way.
What, would'st thou know? It is in truth the mighty power of tune, A power that every step obeys, as tides obey the moon; That threadeth with a golden clue the intricate employment, Curbs bounding strength to tranquil grace, and tames the wild enjoyment.
And comes the world's wide harmony in vain upon thine ears? The stream of music borne aloft from yonder choral spheres? And feel'st thou not the measure which eternal Nature keeps? The whirling dance forever held in yonder azure deeps? The suns that wheel in varying maze?--That music thou discernest? No! Thou canst honor that in sport which thou forgettest in earnest.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

To A Moralist

 Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumbed with the winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms-- All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation.
Learn this--that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,--quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,-- But it cannot make gods of us--No! It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men.
The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;--if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man!


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet XXXII: Blest As the Gods

 Blest as the Gods! Sicilian Maid is he,
The youth whose soul thy yielding graces charm;
Who bound, O! thraldom sweet! by beauty's arm,
In idle dalliance fondly sports with thee!
Blest as the Gods! that iv'ry throne to see,
Throbbing with transports, tender, timid, warm!
While round thy fragrant lips zephyrs swarm!
As op'ning buds attract the wand'ring Bee!
Yet, short is youthful passion's fervid hour;
Soon, shall another clasp the beauteous boy;
Soon, shall a rival prove, in that gay bow'r,
The pleasing torture of excessive joy!
The Bee flies sicken'd from the sweetest flow'r;
The lightning's shaft, but dazzles to destroy!


by | |

Come My Celia

 Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again; But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies, Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal; But the sweet theft to reveal.
To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.


by | |

Song To Celia - I

 Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns that set may rise again, But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal; But the sweet theft to reveal, To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.


by Roger McGough | |

Let Me Die a Youngmans Death

 Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death


by Philip Levine | |

The Dead

 A good man is seized by the police
and spirited away.
Months later someone brags that he shot him once through the back of the head with a Walther 7.
65, and his life ended just there.
Those who loved him go on searching the cafés in the Barrio Chino or the bars near the harbor.
A comrade swears he saw him at a distance buying two kilos of oranges in the market of San José and called out, "Andrés, Andrés," but instead of turning to a man he'd known since child- hood and opening his great arms wide, he scurried off, the oranges tumbling out of the damp sack, one after another, a short bright trail left on the sidewalk to say, Farewell! Farewell to what? I ask.
I asked then and I ask now.
I first heard the story fifty years ago; it became part of the mythology I hauled with me from one graveyard to another, this belief in the power of my yearning.
The dead are every- where, crowding the narrow streets that jut out from the wide boulevard on which we take our morning walk.
They stand in the cold shadows of men and women come to sell themselves to anyone, they stride along beside me and stop when I stop to admire the bright garlands or the little pyramids of fruit, they reach a hand out to give money or to take change, they say "Good morning" or "Thank you," they turn with me and retrace my steps back to the bare little room I've come to call home.
Patiently, they stand beside me staring out over the soiled roofs of the world until the light fades and we are all one or no one.
They ask for so little, a prayer now and then, a toast to their health which is our health, a few lies no one reads incised on a dull plaque between a pharmacy and a sports store, the least little daily miracle.


by Robert Southey | |

Inscription 06 - For A Monument In The New For

 This is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The habitants of all the fertile track
Far as these wilds extend.
He levell'd down Their little cottages, he bade their fields Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste He might most royally pursue his sports! If that thine heart be human, Passenger! Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips Will mutter curses on him.
Think thou then What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man; And as thy thoughts anticipate that day When God shall judge aright, in charity Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.


by Robert Southey | |

Ode Written On The First Of January

 Come melancholy Moralizer--come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, This consecrated day, To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, Whilst her unclouded sun Illumes thy summer day, Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast? That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun? That swift the stream of Years Rolls to Eternity? If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, If Power be thine, remember what thou art-- Remember thou art Man, And Death thine heritage! Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence, Her voice all harmony? Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold-- Where now the charms of Spring? Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid With stern and frowning front Appals the shuddering soul? And would'st thou bid me court her faery form When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colour'd robes Dance varying to the Sun? Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, With anxious gaze survey The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant! There are who at this hour Will love to contemplate! For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, Rejoicing when the fading orb of day Is sunk again in night, That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy load With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows The World a pilgrimage, The Grave the inn of rest.


by Robert Southey | |

On The Death Of A Favourite Old Spaniel

 And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!
The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.
And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eye Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk With fruitless repetition, the warm Sun Would still have cheer'd thy slumber, thou didst love To lick the hand that fed thee, and tho' past Youth's active season, even Life itself Was comfort.
Poor old friend! most earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee: thou hadst been Still the companion of my childish sports, And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody clifts, From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark Recall'd my wandering soul.
I have beguil'd Often the melancholy hours at school, Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remember'd then Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy, Returning at the pleasant holydays, I felt from thy dumb welcome.
Pensively Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of Life! Ah poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate That clos'd for ever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity! But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed, And HE who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man! there is another world For all that live and move--a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine INFINITE GOODNESS to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee!


by Thomas Moore | |

Farewell! -- But Whenever You Welcome the Hour

 Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles -- Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice has murmur'd, "I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd -- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.


by Donald Hall | |

An old life

 Snow fell in the night.
At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish mounded softness where the Honda was.
Cat fed and coffee made, I broomed snow off the car and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart before Amy opened to yank my Globe out of the bundle.
Back, I set my cup of coffee beside Jane, still half-asleep, murmuring stuporous thanks in the aquamarine morning.
Then I sat in my blue chair with blueberry bagels and strong black coffee reading news, the obits, the comics, and the sports.
Carrying my cup twenty feet, I sat myself at the desk for this day's lifelong engagement with the one task and desire.