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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Letty's Globe, by Charles Tennyson Turner
WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,
And her young artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,
By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
Let's Set Our Children Free, by Chris Webster
She took the picture from the wall as tears ran down her cheek,
Then showed the picture all around as she began to speak.
"I'm here to tell her story folks, I feel it should be told,
About this girl with eyes of brown and hair with streaks of gold."
"My one and only daughter, who at sixteen years of age,
To a New York Shop-Girl dressed for Sunday, by Anna Hempstead Branch
To-day I saw the shop-girl go
Down gay Broadway to meet her beau.
Conspicuous, splendid, conscious, sweet,
She spread abroad and took the street.
And all that niceness would forbid,
The Sea Maid, by John Le Gay Brereton
In what pearl-paven mossy cave
By what green sea
Art thou reclining, virgin of the wave,
In realms more full of splendid mystery
Than that strong northern flood whence came
Of Joan's Youth, by Louise Imogen Guiney
I would unto my fair restore
A simple thing:
The flushing cheek she had before!
Out-velveting
No more, no more,
Night's Mardi Gras, by Edward J. Wheeler
Night is the true democracy. When day
Like some great monarch with his train has passed,
In regal pomp and splendor to the last,
The stars troop forth along the Milky Way,
A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray,
Bushland, by Arthur Patchett Martin
Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner
Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait
To welcome him with kisses at the gate,
Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir
Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights:
On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, by Francis Beaumont
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
The Enchanted Sheepfold, by Josephine Preston Peabody
The hills far-off were blue, blue,
The hills at hand were brown;
And all the herd-bells called to me
As I came by the down.
The briars turned to roses, roses;
Lullaby, by Richard Rowlands
UPON my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Love in a Cottage, by Daniel Henry Deniehy
A cottage small be mine, with porch
Enwreathed with ivy green,
And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells,
'Mid brown old wattles seen.
And one to wait at shut of eve,
Brunch At Work, by Maggie Lamont
Two charred tomatoes,
scrambled eggs & Irish Bacon
I tear at the spiced pork with my teeth
Coffee and Icewater
Lifting a huge pot full of potatoes
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