Solitude - Poem By Walter De La Mare

Solitude

       - By Walter De La Mare

Ghosts there must be with me in this old house,

Deepening its midnight as the clock beats on.

Whence else upwelled - strange, sweet, yet ominous - 

That moment of happiness, and then was gone?

Nimbler than air-borne music, heart may call

A speechless message to the inward ear,

As secret even as that which then befell,

Yet nought that listening could make more clear.

Delicate, subtle senses, instant, fleet! - 

But oh, how near the verge at which they fail!

In vain, self hearkens for the fall of feet

Soft as its own may be, beyond the pale.

Good Bye - Poem By Walter De La Mare

Good Bye

      - By Walter De La Mare

The last of last words spoken is, Good-Bye - 

The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge,

The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing,

The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.

A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye,

Shines into nothing the watcher's burnt-out candle,

Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense,

Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.

Love of its muted music breathes no sight,

Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning,

Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden,

Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.

Estranged - Poem by Walter De La Mare

Estranged

                     -     By Walter De La Mare

No one was with me there - 

Happy I was - alone;

Yet from the sunshine suddenly

A joy was gone.

A bird in an empty house

Sad echoes makes to ring,

Flitting from room to room

On restless wing:

Till from its shades he flies,

And leaves forlorn and dim

The narrow solitudes

So strange to him.

So, When with fickle heart

I joyed in the passing day,

A presence my mood estranged

Went grieved away.

The Soldier - Poem By Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

                 - By Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, bless by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

For A Dead Lady - Poem By Edwin Arlington Robinson

For A Dead Lady

       - By E. A. Robinson

No more with overflowing light

Shall fill the eyes that now are faded,

Not shall another's fringe with night

Their woman-hidden world as they did,

No more shall quiver down the days

The flowing wonder of her ways,

Whereof no language may requite

The shifting and the many-shaded.

The grace, divine, definitive,

Clings only as a faint forestalling;

The laugh that love could not forgive

Is hushed, and answers to no calling;

The forehead and the little ears

Have gone where Saturn keeps the years;

The breast where roses could not live

Has done with rising and with falling.

The beauty, shattered by the laws

That have creation in their keeping,

No longer trembles at applause,

Or over children that are sleeping;

And we who delve in beauty's lore

Know all that we have know before

Of what inexorable cause

Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.

The Moth - Poem By Walter De La Mare

The Moth

     - By Walter De La Mare

Isled in the midnight air,

Musked with the dark's faint bloom,

Out into glooming and secret haunts

The flame cries, 'Come!'

Lovely in dye and fan,

A-tremble in shimmering grace,

A moth from her winter swoon

Uplifts her face;

Stares from her glamorous eyes;

Wafts her on plumes like mist;

In ecstasy swirls and sways

To her strange trysts.

Tree At My Window - Poem by Robert Frost

Tree At My Window

  - By Robert Frost

Tree at my window, window tree,

My sash is lowered when night comes on;

But let there never be curtain drawn

Between you and me.

Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,

And thing next most diffuse to cloud,

Not all your light tongues talking aloud

Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,

And if you have seen me when I slept,

You have seen me when I was taken and swept

And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,

Fate had her imagination about her,

Your head so much concerned with outer,

Mine with inner, weather.