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Best Famous Stealing Poems

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

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Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

 I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.


Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Give All to Love

GIVE all to love; 
Obey thy heart; 
Friends kindred days  
Estate good fame  
Plans credit and the Muse¡ª 5 
Nothing refuse. 

'Tis a brave master; 
Let it have scope: 
Follow it utterly  
Hope beyond hope: 10 
High and more high 
It dives into noon  
With wing unspent  
Untold intent; 
But it is a god 15 
Knows its own path  
And the outlets of the sky. 

It was never for the mean; 
It requireth courage stout  
Souls above doubt 20 
Valour unbending: 
Such 'twill reward;¡ª 
They shall return 
More than they were  
And ever ascending. 25 

Leave all for love; 
Yet hear me yet  
One word more thy heart behoved  
One pulse more of firm endeavour¡ª 
Keep thee to-day 30 
To-morrow for ever  
Free as an Arab 
Of thy beloved. 

Cling with life to the maid; 
But when the surprise 35 
First vague shadow of surmise  
Flits across her bosom young  
Of a joy apart from thee  
Free be she fancy-free; 
Nor thou detain her vesture's hem 40 
Nor the palest rose she flung 
From her summer diadem. 

Though thou loved her as thyself  
As a self of purer clay; 
Though her parting dims the day 45 
Stealing grace from all alive; 
Heartily know  
When half-gods go 
The gods arrive. 
Written by Gladys May Casely Hayford | Create an image from this poem

Rainy Season Love Song

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;
Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums
My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,
As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,
Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;
Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,
I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire
Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;
“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,
That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.
When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,
I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”

The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note
As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;
“The thunder’s in love with you darling.   It hides its power in your breast.
And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.
I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,
Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”

Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,
Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.
Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.
Is there peace within like the peace without?   Only the darkness knows.
Written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Create an image from this poem

Love

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o’er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene’er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another’s love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,—

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain—
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;—

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;—

His dying words—but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faultering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

‘Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
Written by William Wordsworth | Create an image from this poem

We Are Seven

  A simple child, dear brother Jim,  That lightly draws its breath,  And feels its life in every limb,  What should it know of death?

  I met a little cottage girl,  She was eight years old, she said;  Her hair was thick with many a curl  That cluster'd round her head.

  She had a rustic, woodland air,  And she was wildly clad;  Her eyes were fair, and very fair,  —Her beauty made me glad.

  "Sisters and brothers, little maid,  How many may you be?"  "How many? seven in all," she said,  And wondering looked at me.

  "And where are they, I pray you tell?"  She answered, "Seven are we,  And two of us at Conway dwell,  And two are gone to sea."

  "Two of us in the church-yard lie,  My sister and my brother,  And in the church-yard cottage, I  Dwell near them with my mother."

  "You say that two at Conway dwell,  And two are gone to sea,  Yet you are seven; I pray you tell  Sweet Maid, how this may be?"

  Then did the little Maid reply,  "Seven boys and girls are we;  Two of us in the church-yard lie,  Beneath the church-yard tree."

  "You run about, my little maid,  Your limbs they are alive;  If two are in the church-yard laid,  Then ye are only five."

  "Their graves are green, they may be seen,"  The little Maid replied,  "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,  And they are side by side."

  "My stockings there I often knit,  My 'kerchief there I hem;  And there upon the ground I sit—  I sit and sing to them."

  "And often after sunset, Sir,  When it is light and fair,  I take my little porringer,  And eat my supper there."

  "The first that died was little Jane;  In bed she moaning lay,  Till God released her of her pain,  And then she went away."

  "So in the church-yard she was laid,  And all the summer dry,  Together round her grave we played,  My brother John and I."

  "And when the ground was white with snow,  And I could run and slide,  My brother John was forced to go,  And he lies by her side."

  "How many are you then," said I,  "If they two are in Heaven?"  The little Maiden did reply,  "O Master! we are seven."

  "But they are dead; those two are dead!  Their spirits are in heaven!"  'Twas throwing words away; for still  The little Maid would have her will,  And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

ANECDOTE for FATHERS,   Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

  I have a boy of five years old,  His face is fair and fresh to see;  His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,  And dearly he loves me.

  One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,  Our quiet house all full in view,  And held such intermitted talk  As we are wont to do.

  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;  I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,  My pleasant home, when Spring began,  A long, long year before.

  A day it was when I could bear  To think, and think, and think again;  With so much happiness to spare,  I could not feel a pain.

  My boy was by my side, so slim  And graceful in his rustic dress!  And oftentimes I talked to him  In very idleness.

  The young lambs ran a pretty race;  The morning sun shone bright and warm;  "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,  And so is Liswyn farm."

  "My little boy, which like you more,"  I said and took him by the arm—  "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,  Or here at Liswyn farm?"

  "And tell me, had you rather be,"  I said and held-him by the arm,  "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,  Or here at Liswyn farm?"

  In careless mood he looked at me,  While still I held him by the arm,  And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be  Than here at Liswyn farm."

  "Now, little Edward, say why so;  My little Edward, tell me why;"  "I cannot tell, I do not know."  "Why this is strange," said I.

  "For, here are woods and green hills warm:  There surely must some reason be  Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,  For Kilve by the green sea."

  At this, my boy hung down his head,  He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;  And five times to the child I said,  "Why, Edward, tell me, why?"

  His head he raised—there was in sight,  It caught his eye, he saw it plain—  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,  A broad and gilded vane.

  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,  And thus to me he made reply;  "At Kilve there was no weather-cock,  And that's the reason why."

  Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart  For better lore would seldom yearn  Could I but teach the hundredth part  Of what from thee I learn.

LINES  Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by  my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

  It is the first mild day of March:  Each minute sweeter than before,  The red-breast sings from the tall larch  That stands beside our door.

  There is a blessing in the air,  Which seems a sense of joy to yield  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,  And grass in the green field.

  My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)  Now that our morning meal is done,  Make haste, your morning task resign;  Come forth and feel the sun.

  Edward will come with you, and pray,  Put on with speed your woodland dress,  And bring no book, for this one day  We'll give to idleness.

  No joyless forms shall regulate  Our living Calendar:  We from to-day, my friend, will date  The opening of the year.

  Love, now an universal birth,  From heart to heart is stealing,  From earth to man, from man to earth,  —It is the hour of feeling.

  One moment now may give us more  Than fifty years of reason;  Our minds shall drink at every pore  The spirit of the season.

  Some silent laws our hearts may make,  Which they shall long obey;  We for the year to come may take  Our temper from to-day.

  And from the blessed power that rolls  About, below, above;  We'll frame the measure of our souls,  They shall be tuned to love.

  Then come, my sister I come, I pray,  With speed put on your woodland dress,  And bring no book; for this one day  We'll give to idleness.



Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

A Man

 George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing
it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the
door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag. 
"George, I left that son of a *****, I couldn't stand that son of a *****
anymore." 
"Sit down."
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds
with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse
and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled. 
"I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a *****." "
Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near,
George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her. 
"You son of a *****," she said, "I missed you." 
"I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good
legs." 
"You still like 'em?" 
"I get hot just looking."
"I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too
soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He
was antisceptic, that's what he was." 
"Drink up, you'll feel better." 
"And he couldn't make love." 
"You mean he couldn't get it up?" 
"Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a
woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he
was useless." 
"I wish I had a college education." 
"You don't need one. You have everything you need, George." 
"I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs." 
"I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman
happy." 
"Yeh?" 
"Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three
times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time
she was treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away
from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my pussy, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my pussy. He said, 'I
don't want to look at that thing.' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid
of my pussy, are you, George?"
"It's never bit me yet." "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't
you George?"
"I suppose I have." 
"And you've licked it , sucked it?" 
"I suppose so." 
"You know damn well, George, what you've done." 
"How much money did you get?" 
"Six hundred dollars." 
"I don't like people who rob other people, Connie." 
"That's why you're a fucking dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ass,
George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it... him and his mother and his
love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and
breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious
love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman
wants, George." 
"Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette." 
George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those
legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women
don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass; it
puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!"
"You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a
dishwasher."
"You know what I'd really like to do?" 
"What?" 
"I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs. I'd like to
make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you
pure love." 
"I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've
always done right with me." 
"Pull your dress up higher." 
"What?" 
"Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs." 
"You like my legs, don't you, George?" 
"Let the light shine on them!" 
Constance hiked her dress.
"God christ ****," said George. 
"You like my legs?"
"I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance
hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
"what'd you do that for?" 
"You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!" 
"So what the hell?" 
"So pull your dress up higher!" 
"No!" 
"Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt. 
"Just up to the panties!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the
panties!" 
"Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?" 
"You fucked Walter!" 
"George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here,
George!"
"Don't move or I'll kill you!" 
"You'd kill me?" 
"I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey,
drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her
wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away. 
"I'm a man , baby, understand that?" 
"I know you're a man , George."
"Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms. 
"Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!" 
Constance felt one of the arms, then the other. 
"Yes, you have a beautiful body, George." 
"I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man." 
"I know it, George." "I'm not the milkshit you left." 
"I know it."
"And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice." 
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River." Then he
sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." He sang "The St. Louis
Blues." He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing.
Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs."
He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head
down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I
guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with
that cigarette." 
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing
him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it
on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked
to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and
drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She
walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one
o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got
out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She
walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked
up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He
recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked
toward them They all knew eachother.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

A Nocturnal Reverie

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Star-Splitter

 `You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?'
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

`What do you want with one of those blame things?'
I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!'

`Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.'
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
`The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.'
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.

Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three, the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?
Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

To a Lady on the Death of Her Husband

Grim monarch! see, depriv'd of vital breath,
A young physician in the dust of death:
Dost thou go on incessant to destroy,
Our griefs to double, and lay waste our joy?
"Enough" thou never yet wast known to say,
Though millions die, the vassals of thy sway:
Nor youth, nor science, nor the ties of love,
Nor aught on earth thy flinty heart can move.
The friend, the spouse from his dire dart to save,
In vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.
Fair mourner, there see thy lov'd Leonard laid,
And o'er him spread the deep impervious shade;
Clos'd are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep
His senses bound in never-waking sleep,
Till time shall cease, till many a starry world
Shall fall from heav'n, in dire confusion hurl'd,
Till nature in her final wreck shall lie,
And her last groan shall rend the azure sky:
Not, not till then his active soul shall claim
His body, a divine immortal frame.

  But see the softly-stealing tears apace
Pursue each other down the mourner's face;
But cease thy tears, bid ev'ry sigh depart,
And cast the load of anguish from thine heart:
From the cold shell of his great soul arise,
And look beyond, thou native of the skies;
There fix thy view, where fleeter than the wind
Thy Leonard mounts, and leaves the earth behind.
Thyself prepare to pass the vale of night
To join for ever on the hills of light:
To thine embrace his joyful sprit moves
To thee, the partner of his earthly loves;
He welcomes thee to pleasures more refin'd,
And better suited to th' immortal mind.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to the Moon

 PALE GODDESS of the witching hour;
Blest Contemplation's placid friend; 
Oft in my solitary bow'r,
I mark thy lucid beam
From thy crystal car descend,
Whitening the spangled heath, and limpid sapphire stream. 

And oft, amidst the shades of night
I court thy undulating light;
When Fairies dance around the verdant ring,
Or frisk beside the bubbling spring,
When the thoughtless SHEPHERD'S song
Echoes thro' the silent air,
As he pens his fleecy care,
Or plods with saunt'ring gait, the dewy meads along. 

CHASTE ORB! as thro' the vaulted sky
Feath'ry clouds transparent sail; 
When thy languid, weeping eye,
Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale; 
As I ponder o'er the floods,
Or tread with listless step, th'embow'ring woods,
O, let thy transitory beam,
Soothe my sad mind, with FANCY'S aëry dream. 

Wrapt in REFLECTION, let me trace 
O'er the vast ethereal space, 
Stars, whose twinkling fires illume 
Dark-brow'd NIGHT'S obtrusive gloom; 
Where across the concave wide; 
Flaming METEORS swiftly glide; 
Or along the milky way, 
Vapours shoot a silvery ray;
And as I mark, thy faint reclining head, 
Sinking on Ocean's pearly bed;
Let REASON tell my soul, thus all things fade. 

The Seasons change, the "garish SUN"
When Day's burning car hath run
Its fiery course, no more we view,
While o'er the mountain's golden head,
Streak'd with tints of crimson hue,
Twilight's filmy curtains spread,
Stealing o'er Nature's face, a desolating shade. 

Yon musky FLOW'R, that scents the earth;
The SOD, that gave its odours birth; 
The ROCK, that breaks the torrent's force; 
The VALE, that owns its wand'ring course; 
The woodlands where the vocal throng 
Trill the wild melodious song; 
Thirsty desarts, sands that glow, 
Mountains, cap'd with flaky snow; 
Luxuriant groves, enamell'd fields,
All, all, prolific Nature yields,
Alike shall end; the sensate HEART,
With all its passions, all its fire,
Touch'd by FATE'S unerring dart,
Shall feel its vital strength expire;
Those eyes, that beam with FRIENDSHIP'S ray,
And glance ineffable delight,
Shall shrink from LIFE'S translucid day, 
And close their fainting orbs, in DEATH'S impervious night. 

Then what remains for mortal pow'r;
But TIME'S dull journey to beguile;
To deck with joy, the winged hour,
To meet its sorrows with a patient smile; 
And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end, 
To greet the tyrant, as a welcome friend.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things