Ode to Beauty, by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Who gave thee, O Beauty,
The keys of this br...
Spider Poems
The Code, by Robert Frost
THERE were three in the meadow by the brook
Ga...
Range-Finding, by Robert Frost
THE battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cu...
Snow, by Robert Frost
THE three stood listening to a fresh access
Of...
Gerontion, by T. S. Eliot
Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an ...
What the Thunder Said, by T. S. Eliot
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After...
A Noiseless Patient Spider, by Walt Whitman
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on...
Merlin and Vivien, by Alfred Tennyson
A storm was coming, but the winds were still, ...
Wild Duck, by Lola Ridge
I That was a great night we spied upon
See-sa...
Coldness in Love, by D. H. Lawrence
And you remember, in the afternoon
The sea an...
Malade, by D. H. Lawrence
THE sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie pro...
Visions of the Daughters of Albion, by William Blake
The Argument I lovè d Theotormon,
An...
Come the Spring, by Christine Ann Clatworthy
The hay-barn could tell many a story;
resplen...
Georgic IV, by Virgil
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I now
Tak...
Love, by Francis Jammes
LASS, when they talk of love, laugh in their ...
Peace in all Her Sweetness Hail, by Bacchylides
Peace in all her sweetness hail!
No more the c...
To a Spider, by C. B. Langston
Weave on, poor insect! Weave on still,
Thy s...
On the Way to School, by Charles Ghigna
I'll tell you why I'm tardy and I hope my excus...
The Room Beneath the Rafters, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep,
Drape...
Giraffe-Hunting in Central Africa, by Isaac McLellan
In far 'Mid-Africa, where woods
Illimitable w...
October, by Isaac McLellan
It is October, and the glory of the year
Is i...
Autumn, by Joshua Knight
This is definitely my favorite time of the year...
Coke Nazi, by Joshua Knight
It’ s well documented by now
that Coca C...
The Ballade of Butterflies, by Joyce Kilmer
Because we never build a nest
And no one of us...
Nature and Composition of the Mind, by Lucretius
First, then, I say, the mind which oft we ca...