Poetry anthology online. The Poem Tree: An Online Poetry Anthology 2022-10-15
Poetry anthology online
An online poetry anthology is a collection of poems that are published and made available on the internet. There are many benefits to having an online poetry anthology, as it allows readers to access a wide range of poems from different poets and time periods in one convenient location.
One of the main advantages of an online poetry anthology is that it is accessible to anyone with an internet connection. This means that people who live in remote areas or who do not have access to physical copies of poetry collections can still read and enjoy a wide range of poems. In addition, an online poetry anthology is often free to access, which means that readers can enjoy the poems without having to pay for them.
Another benefit of an online poetry anthology is that it can be easily updated and expanded. Because it is digital, new poems can be added to the collection at any time, and readers can access the latest poems as soon as they are published. This is in contrast to a physical poetry anthology, which may only be updated once every few years, if at all.
In addition to the convenience and accessibility of an online poetry anthology, it can also be a great resource for students and educators. Many online poetry anthologies include information about the poets and their work, as well as resources for analysis and interpretation. This can be especially useful for students studying literature or for anyone interested in learning more about poetry.
Overall, an online poetry anthology is a valuable resource for anyone interested in reading and learning about poetry. It offers convenience, accessibility, and a wide range of poems from different poets and time periods. Whether you are a seasoned poetry reader or new to the world of poetry, an online poetry anthology is a great place to start exploring and discovering new poets and poems.
Poetry Anthology Introduction
Who has seen the wind? My soul is all but out of me, let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. She swallows up my oats, But I don't get any eggs. Each poet, like each reader, has a specific memory that makes a past event or person special. Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat. The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! Professor Wind played louder; They flew along the ground; And then the party ended In jolly "hands around.
It brings us a little close to the truth about ourselves as individuals while simultaneously it reiterates the concept that we are all part of a collective unit. Yet though it be the chilliest May, With least of sun and most of showers, Its wind and dew, its night and day, Bring up the flowers. Every one for what he likes! Frost, Robert, 1874-1963: American poet. But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. With a tiger-leap half way, now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then, has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, like an Indian Conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. Now mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true! Jesus on His Mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless Lamb of God was He, Shepherd of the Fold: Let us kneel with Mary Maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With Saint and Angel, Ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.
Year 1 Poetry Anthology: Complete
The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water, We gather every day;-- He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who has made all things well. March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil. Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the night. The Wind, he took to his revels once more; On down In town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar, "What's that? God rest her aged bones somewhere-- She died full long agone! O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew. Yet after all I've said, suppose My greatest favourite should be Rose.
April 01 Spring, by William Blake, 1757-1827 Sound the flute! Talley, 1870-1952 from Negro Folk Rhymes, 1922 Somebody stole my speckled hen. The air is blue and sweet, The few first stars are white, Oh let me like the birds Sing before night. Talley, 1870-1952 Sheep's in the meadow, mowing the hay. Soft snow, spread out his winding-sheet! Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, He made their tiny wings. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
It has a little shelf, my dear, As dark as dark can be, And there's a dish of Banbury Cakes For me, me, me. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much. How glad I am! If you have a modern browser, you can use Ctrl+ and Ctrl- to change the size of the text. The city mouse eats bread and cheese;-- The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stalks, Poor little timid furry man. For blue of stream and blue of sky; For pleasant shade of branches high; For fragrant air and cooling breeze; For beauty of the blooming trees, Father in heaven, we thank Thee. Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore.
The Poem Tree: An Online Poetry Anthology
I am The everlasting cat! For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, For the peace and plenty together share, For the Hand which guides us from above, For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, For the blessed home with its children gay, For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! And then they will thank me, who mock me now, "Wanting the Moon is he,"-- Oh, I'm off the mountain after the Moon, Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree! Oh I must pass nothing by Without loving it much, The raindrop try with my lips, The grass with my touch; For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May Shining after the rain? He sat down close where I could see, And his big still eyes looked hard at me, His big eyes bursting out of the rim, And I looked back very hard at him. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all. O He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow, Nor doth it need the lotus flower To make the river flow. I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go But I go on forever. Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell! Hugo, Victor, 1802-1885: French author of essays, poems, novels, and plays.
Slender, silvery drumsticks, On an ancient drum, Beat the mellow music Bidding life to come. But there is no road through the woods. And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go But I go on forever. My life is a bore in this nasty pond, And I long to go out in the world beyond! Quick now, be this airy Globe repelled! What do you think of Caroline? Folks call this a fable. Blake, William, 1757-1827: English poet, mystic, and ardent abolitionist who argued for fair treatment for all people. One, One, two, three, One, two, five.
Beneath the silken silence The crystal branches slept, And dreaming through the dew-fall The cold white blossoms wept. You never can tell when you do an act Just what the result may be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed Though the harvest you may not see. Then by there came two gentlemen, At twelve o'clock at night, And they could neither see house nor hall, Nor coal nor candle-light. Here we lie cosily, close to each other: Hark to the song of the lark-- "Waken! If so, his pretty art succeeds. We sailed along for days and days, And had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, So there was no one left but me. Summer: hoppy, choppy, poppy. But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! And she made him a feast at his earnest wish Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;-- And she said,--'It's a fact the whole world knows, 'That Pobbles are happier without their toes.
Each a sharp-pointed flower, Each a brief stalactite Which hangs for an hour In the blue cave of night. De la Mare, Walter, 1873-1956: English poet, writer. Her Brothers were the craggy hills, Her Sisters larchen trees-- Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- 'It's very rude of him,' she said, 'To come and spoil the fun! Put down your hat --- You must have walked --- How out of breath you are! Dubois editing The Crisis and The Brownies Book a magazine for Black children. Viewing the Site AOL users must turn off graphics compression to appreciate the graphics. He caught the minnow.
Do you wish the world were happy? Over the fields and the water too, As if you never would stop! No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the Moon. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. It must have some reason in it, And not last beyond a minute. There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please; But the bow that bridges heaven, And overtops the trees, And builds a road from earth to sky, Is prettier far than these. He went as fast as I could run; I wonder how he crossed the sky? If only you could keep awake When Nurse puts out the light.