Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Schreckhorn
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
The Schreckhorn Post by :debrown Category :Poems Author :Thomas Hardy Date :December 2010 Read :1453

Click below to download : The Schreckhorn (Format : PDF)

The Schreckhorn

(With thoughts of Leslie Stephen)
(June 1897)


Aloof, as if a thing of mood and whim;
Now that its spare and desolate figure gleams
Upon my nearing vision, less it seems
A looming Alp-height than a guise of him
Who scaled its horn with ventured life and limb,
Drawn on by vague imaginings, maybe,
Of semblance to his personality
In its quaint glooms, keen lights, and rugged trim.

At his last change, when Life's dull coils unwind,
Will he, in old love, hitherward escape,
And the eternal essence of his mind
Enter this silent adamantine shape,
And his low voicing haunt its slipping snows
When dawn that calls the climber dyes them rose?

(The end)
Thomas Hardy's poem: Schreckhorn

If you like this book please share to your friends :

A Singer Asleep A Singer Asleep

A Singer Asleep
(Algernon Charles Swinburne, 1837-1909) IIn this fair niche above the unslumbering sea,That sentrys up and down all night, all day,From cove to promontory, from ness to bay, The Fates have fitly bidden that he should be Pillowed eternally.II- It was as though a garland of red rosesHad fallen about the hood of some smug nunWhen irresponsibly dropped as from the sun,In fulth of numbers freaked with musical closes,Upon Victoria's formal middle time His leaves of rhythm and rhyme.IIIO that far morning of a summer dayWhen, down a terraced street whose pavements layGlassing the sunshine into my bent eyes,I walked and read with

Where The Picnic Was Where The Picnic Was

Where The Picnic Was
Where we made the fire,In the summer time,Of branch and briarOn the hill to the seaI slowly climbThrough winter mire,And scan and traceThe forsaken placeQuite readily.Now a cold wind blows,And the grass is gray,But the spot still showsAs a burnt circle--aye,And stick-ends, charred,Still strew the swardWhereon I stand,Last relic of the bandWho came that day!Yes, I am hereJust as last year,And the sea breathes brineFrom its strange straight lineUp hither, the sameAs when we four came.- But two have wandered farFrom this grassy riseInto urban roarWhere no picnics are,And one--has shut her eyesFor evermore.(The end)Thomas Hardy's poem: Where The Picnic Was