Famous Asp Poems by Famous Poets

 It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous...Read More

 Mean while the heinous and despiteful act 
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how 
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve, 
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,...Read More

 (In memoriam
C. T. W.
Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards
obiit H.M. prison, Reading, Berkshire
July 7, 1896)

I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and...Read More

 The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a...Read More

 Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each...Read More

 Rejoice in God, O ye Tongues; give the glory to the Lord, and the Lamb. 

Nations, and languages, and every Creature, in which is the breath of Life. 

Let...Read More

 Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over...Read More

 I

How should I seek to make a song for thee
When all my music is to moan thy name?
That long sad monotone - the same - the same -
Matching the...Read More

 To-night I tread the unsubstantial way
That looms before me, as the thundering night
Falls on the ocean: I must stop, and pray
One little prayer, and then - what bitter fight
Flames...Read More

 Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
Amid the soft encircling green,
Where yonder budding acorn rears,
Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:
Slow pass along the train of years,
And on...Read More

SONNET CLXXV. Non dall' Ispano Ibero all' Indo Idaspe. HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.  From Spanish Ebro to Hydaspes old,Exploring ocean in its every nook,Read More

 Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift 
To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie 
With her fair visage an inverted sky 
Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift,...Read More

 XI

A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon;
And wov'n close, both matter, form and stile;
The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while,
Numbring good intellects; now seldom por'd on.
Cries...Read More