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Every Day Poems

A Poem A Day

  • Poetry of the 1500s
  • Poetry of the1600s
  • Poetry of the 1700s
  • Poems for Kids
  • War Poems
  • Every Poem

1700s

Christmas in the Olden Time by Walter Scott

December 12, 2010 by Every Writer

 

Christmas in the Olden Time

by Walter Scott

On Christmas-eve the bells were rung;
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Thus opened wide the baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside
And ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of “Post and Pair.”
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving man;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baitings of the boar.
The wassal round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pye;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide, her savory goose.

Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din.
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong;
Who lists may in their murmuring see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But O, what maskers richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was “merry England” when
Old Christmas brought his sports again;
‘Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

Filed Under: 1700s, Christmas Poems

A Christmas Carol by Christina G. Rossetti

December 11, 2010 by Every Writer

Christina Rossetti

A Christmas Carol
by Christina G. Rossetti

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away,
When he comes to reign.
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there;
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air.
But only His Mother,
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped her Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man,
I would do my part,?
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Filed Under: 1700s, Rossetti, Chrstina

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

November 28, 2010 by Every Writer

John Keats

?

Ode to a Nightingale

?by John Keats
1.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,?
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

2.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Proven?al song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

3.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

4.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

5.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

6.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain?
To thy high requiem become a sod.

7.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

8.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:?Do I wake or sleep?

Filed Under: 1700s, 1800s Poetry

Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening by Amy Lowell

October 20, 2010 by Every Writer

?

Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening
??????

?? It was a gusty night,
?? With the wind booming, and swooping,
?? Looping round corners,
?? Sliding over the cobble-stones,
?? Whipping and veering,
?? And careering over the roofs
?? Like a thousand clattering horses.
?? Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city,
?? Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait,
?? And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins
?? And laughed as it whistled past him.
?? It rolled him along the street,
?? With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk,
?? And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him.
?? It bumped him against area railings,
?? And chuckled in his ear when he said “Ouch!”
?? Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet
?? And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter.
?? The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking.
?? It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins,
?? And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door
?? It was a relief,
?? Although the breath was quite knocked out of him.
?? The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up,
?? And the keyhole was as big as a barn door;
?? The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star,
?? And the keyhole went out with it.
?? Such a stabbing, and jabbing,
?? And sticking, and picking,
?? And poking, and pushing, and prying
?? With that key;
?? And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or two,
?? Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll.
?? But the door opened at last,
?? And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall
?? And slammed the door to so hard
?? That the knocker banged five times before it stopped.
?? Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle,
?? And all the time the moon winked at him through the window.
?? “Why couldn’t you find the keyhole, Spruggins?”
?? Taunted the wind.
?? “I can find the keyhole.”
?? And the wind, thin as a wire,
?? Darted in and seized the candle flame
?? And knocked it over to one side
?? And pummelled it down?down?down?!
?? But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin,
?? And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner,
?? For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, “Spruggins!? Spruggins!”
???? behind him.
?? The fire in his bedroom burned brightly.
?? The room with its crimson bed and window curtains
?? Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle.
?? It was still and warm.
?? There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened;
?? And no moon,
?? For the curtains were drawn.
?? The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear
?? In a wide brass dish.
?? Mr. Spruggins sighed with content;
?? He was safe at home.
?? The fire glowed?red and yellow roses
?? In the black basket of the grate?
?? And the bed with its crimson hangings
?? Seemed a great peony,
?? Wide open and placid.
?? Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler.
?? He slipped off his bottle-green coat
?? And his flowered waistcoat.
?? He put on a flannel dressing-gown,
?? And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin.
?? He wound his large gold watch
?? And placed it under his pillow.
?? Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain.
?? There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds;
?? But behind him was his quiet candle.
?? There was the wind whisking along the street.
?? The window rattled, but it was fastened.
?? Did the wind say, “Spruggins”?
?? All Mr. Spruggins heard was “S-s-s-s-s?”
?? Dying away down the street.
?? He dropped the curtain and got into bed.
?? Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan;
?? The bed was warm,
?? And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers,
?? With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head.
?? Mr. Spruggins dozed.
?? He had forgotten to put out the candle,
?? But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright…
?? Too bright!
?? The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids,
?? They scorched him back to consciousness.
?? He tried to shift his position;
?? He could not move.
?? Something weighed him down,
?? He could not breathe.
?? He was gasping,
?? Pinned down and suffocating.
?? He opened his eyes.
?? The curtains of the window were flung back,
?? The fire and the candle were out,
?? And the room was filled with green moonlight.
?? And pressed against the window-pane
?? Was a wide, round face,
?? Winking?winking?
?? Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other.
?? Tick?tock?went the watch under his pillow,
?? Wink?wink?went the face at the window.
?? It was not the fire roses which had pricked him,
?? It was the winking eyes.
?? Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up;
?? He could not, because?
?? His heart flapped up into his mouth
?? And fell back dead.
?? On his chest was a fat pink pig,
?? On the pig a blackamoor
?? With a ten pound weight for a cap.
?? His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes,
?? And his eyes rolled round and round,
?? With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing,
?? And appearing again on the other side.
?? The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles,
?? And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar,
?? While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind.
?? He dug his spurs into the pig,
?? Which trampled and snorted,
?? And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins.
?? Then the green light on the floor began to undulate.
?? It heaved and hollowed,
?? It rose like a tide,
?? Sea-green,
?? Full of claws and scales
?? And wriggles.
?? The air above his bed began to move;
?? It weighed over him
?? In a mass of draggled feathers.
?? Not one lifted to stir the air.
?? They drooped and dripped
?? With a smell of port wine and brandy,
?? Closing down, slowly,
?? Trickling drops on the bed-quilt.
?? Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass,
?? And the moon burst into the room,
?? Sizzling?”S-s-s-s-s?Spruggins!? Spruggins!”
?? It rolled toward him,
?? A green ball of flame,
?? With two eyes in the center,
?? A red eye and a yellow eye,
?? Dropping their lids slowly,
?? One after the other.
?? Mr. Spruggins tried to scream,
?? But the blackamoor
?? Leapt off his pig
?? With a cry,
?? Drew his scimitar,
?? And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins’s mouth.

?? Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn
?? And remade the fire.
?? Then he crept back to bed
?? By the light which seeped in under the window curtains,
?? And lay there, shivering,
?? While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after seven.

Filed Under: 1700s, Lowell, Amy

Amazing Grace by John Newton

August 15, 2010 by Every Writer

John Newton (1725-1807)

Amazing Grace
.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

An amazing fact about this poem is that Newton was a slave ship captain?who became a minister. He claimed god had saved him from a wreched life. The music that is put to the poem is most-likely written by slaves. These facts have a great impact on the meaning of the words of the famous hymn.

Filed Under: 1700s, Inspirational Poems

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