Written by
Thomas Hardy |
Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house.
The flakes fly!--faster
Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house.
The flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone!
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Written by
Robert William Service |
So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,
That did the world but know it,
Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
Your butler be a poet.
Then, oh, how charming it would be
If, when in haste hysteric
You called the page, you learned that he
Was grappling with a lyric.
Or else what rapture it would yield,
When cook sent up the salad,
To find within its depths concealed
A touching little ballad.
Or if for tea and toast you yearned,
What joy to find upon it
The chambermaid had coyly laid
A palpitating sonnet.
Your baker could the fashion set;
Your butcher might respond well;
With every tart a triolet,
With every chop a rondel.
Your tailor's bill .
.
.
well, I'll be blowed!
Dear chap! I never knowed him .
.
.
He's gone and written me an ode,
Instead of what I owed him.
So easy 'tis to rhyme .
.
.
yet stay!
Oh, terrible misgiving!
Please do not give the game away .
.
.
I've got to make my living.
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Written by
Thomas Hardy |
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee!
- Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee?
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Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
It makes bad writers somewhat worse:
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
That fall beneath a reader's curse,
It is the feeblest jingle yet.
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
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Written by
Thomas Hardy |
Scene.
--A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and
frozen to iron hardness.
Three large birds walking about thereon,
and wistfully eyeing the surface.
Wind keen from north-east: sky a
dull grey.
(Triolet)
Rook.
--Throughout the field I find no grain;
The cruel frost encrusts the cornland!
Starling.
--Aye: patient pecking now is vain
Throughout the field, I find .
.
.
Rook.
--No grain!
Pigeon.
--Nor will be, comrade, till it rain,
Or genial thawings loose the lorn land
Throughout the field.
Rook.
--I find no grain:
The cruel frost encrusts the cornland!
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