English poetry

Bonnie George Campbell High upon highlands,   And low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell   Rode out on a day; Saddled and bridled,   And gallant to see: Home came his good horse,   But home came not he. Out ran his old mother,   Wild with despair;                                                     Out ran his bonnie bride,   Tearing her hair. He rode saddled and bridled,   With boot to the knee Home came his good horse,   But never came he. "My meadow lies green,    And his corn is unshron, My barn is unbuilt,    And my babe is unborn." He rode saddled and bridled,    Careless and free: Safe home came the saddle,    But never came he. The writer of this poem is unknown...

Crystal Moment   Once or twice this side of death Things can make one hold his breath. From my boyhood I remember A crystal moment of september. A wooded island rang with sounds Of church bells in the throats of hounds. A buck leaped out and took the tide With jewels flowing past each side. With his high head like a tree He swam with in a yard of me. I saw the Forest's holiness On him like a fierce caress.                                   Fear made him lovely past belief, My heart was trembling like a leaf. He leaned towards the land and life With need upon him like a knife. In his wake the hot hounds churned, They streached their muzzles out and yearned. They bayed no more, but swam and throbbed, Hunger drove them since they sobbed. Pursued, pursuers reached the shore And vanished. I saw nothing more. So they passed, a p...

The spider With six small diamonds for his eyes He walks upon the summer skies, Drawing from his silken blousee The lasework of his dwelling house. He lays his staircase as he goes Under his eight thougtful toes And grows with the contransic flower Of his shadowless, thin bower.                        His back legs are a pair of hands, They can spindleout the strands Of a thread that is so small It stops the sunlight, not at all. He spins himself to threads of dew Which will harden soon into Lines that cut like slender knives Across the insects' airy lives. He makes no motion but is right, He spreads out his appetite Into a network, twist on twist, This little ancient scientist. He does not know he is unkind, He has a jewel for a mind And logic deadly as dry bone, This small sun of Euclid's own. By: ___ Robert P. Tristram Coffin

Concord Hymn By the rude bridge that Arched the flood,    Their flag to aprail's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood    And fired the shot heard around the world. The foe long since in scilence selpt;    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.    On this green bank, by this soft stream,    We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem,    When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made that heroes dare    To die, and leave their children free, Bid time and Nature gently spare    The shaft we raise to them and thee. By _____________ Ralph Waldo Emerson