Poems eBook

Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 215 pages of information about Poems.

Life is too short to waste
In critic peep or cynic bark,
Quarrel or reprimand: 
’T will soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark!


That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must add the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose. 
There’s a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea. 
Toil could never compass it;
Art its height could never hit;
It came never out of wit;
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn. 
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it?  What the soldier’s mail,
Unless he conquer and prevail? 
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another’s gift? 
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight: 
When thou lookest on his face,
Thy heart saith, ’Brother, go thy ways! 
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest,
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden;’
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten. 
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad his shoulders are and strong;
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening and young. 
I hold it of little matter
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,
But whether it dazzle me with light. 
I care not how you are dressed,
In coarsest weeds or in the best;
Nor whether your name is base or brave: 
Nor for the fashion of your behavior;
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me
And dress up Nature in your favor. 
One thing is forever good;
That one thing is Success,—­
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood. 
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.


Mortal mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets nor rings. 
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover;
In strange junctures, felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
That no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand. 
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues. 
Fearless Guy had never foes,
He did their weapons decompose. 
Aimed at him, the blushing blade
Healed as fast the wounds it made. 
If on the foeman fell his gaze,
Him it would straightway blind or craze,
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye ’t was seeking found.

Project Gutenberg
Poems from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
Follow Us on Facebook