Poetry Catalog

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart; the melodyOf this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leafAmid the cypress with which Dante crownedHis visionary brow: a glow-worm … [Read more...] about Scorn Not The Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth

My rose vines are trimmed back.Winter’s harsh climate dida number on them.The clipping continue along withover grown toenails lyingon the porch. … [Read more...] about Spring Clippings, By: Mary Bone

Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest senseOf 'justice' which the human mind can frame,Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,And guard the way of life from all offenceSuffered or done. When lawless violenceInvades a Realm, so pressed that in the scaleOf perilous war her weightiest armies fail,Honour is hopeful elevation, whenceGlory, and triumph. Yet with politic … [Read more...] about Say, What Is Honour? ‘Tis The Finest Sense, By: William Wordsworth

Do you ever think about death?Does it bring anxiety, a soul's unrest?So much sadness, so many tears.Missing loved ones, memories so dear.Sobbing in rivers, overflowing with pain.They hear your heartache, holding hands in the rain.The veil will lift, and your day will come.A time for rebirth, just walk towards the sun. … [Read more...] about Beyond the Veil, By: Teri Dourmashkin

When Ruth was left half desolate,Her Father took another Mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughtless freedom, bold. And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the … [Read more...] about Ruth, By: William Wordsworth