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Romantic Poetry - 8

Sonnet XXXII by William Shakespeare

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

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Sonnet CII by William Shakespeare

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

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The Annunciation by Joyce Kilmer

Hail Mary, full of grace,' the Angel saith.
Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;
She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,
Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.
Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth;
Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,
Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed,
And human lips have trembled in God's breath.

O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover
With thy white self, whereon no stain can be,
Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover,
Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.
About thy head celestial legions hover,
Chanting the praise of thy humility.

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He is Coming, He is Coming by Cecil Frances Alexander

He is coming, He is coming,
Not as once He came before,
Wailing Infant born in weakness
On a lowly stable floor;
But upon His cloud of glory,
In the crimson tinted sky,
Where we see the golden sunrise,
In the rosy distance lie.

He is coming, He is coming,
Not in pain, and shame, and woe,
With the thorn crown on His forehead,
And the blood drops trickling slow;
But with diadem upon Him,
And the scepter in His hand,
And the dead all ranged before Him,
Raised from death, hell, sea and land.

He is coming, He is coming,
Not as once He wandered through
All the hostile land of Judah,
With His followers poor and few;
But with all the holy angels
Waiting round His judgment seat,
And the chosen twelve Apostles,
Sitting crown�d at His feet.

He is coming, He is coming,
Let His lowly first estate,
And His tender love, so teach us
That in faith and hope we wait,
Till in glory eastward burning,
Our redemption draweth near,
And we see the sign in heaven
Of our Judge and Savior dear.

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Let God Help You...' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Let God help you, my dear friends,
In toils of life and service strive,
In sweetest secrets of your love,
In feasts among debauching lads!

Let God help you, my dear friends,
In storms and everyday distress,
In dark abysses of the earth,
In desert seas and alien lands!

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