poem index

sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox

About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).

 

On a Very Old Woman

  LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

 "Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare."

  And thou wert once a maiden fair,
    A blushing virgin warm and young:
  With myrtles wreathed in golden hair,
  And glossy brow that knew no care—
    Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.

  The golden locks are silvered now,
    The blushing cheek is pale and wan;
  The spring may bloom, the autumn glow,
  All's one—in chimney corner thou
    Sitt'st shivering on.—

  A moment—and thou sink'st to rest!
  To wake perhaps an angel blest,
    In the bright presence of thy Lord.
  Oh, weary is life's path to all!
  Hard is the strife, and light the fall,
    But wondrous the reward!

this poem is in the public domain. 

this poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

poem
  The noble King of Brentford
    Was old and very sick,
  He summon'd his physicians
    To wait upon him quick;
  They stepp'd into their coaches
    And brought their best physick.

  They cramm'd their gracious master
    With potion and with pill;
  They drench'd him and they bled him;
    They could not
poem
  Now the toils of day are over,
    And the sun hath sunk to rest,
  Seeking, like a fiery lover,
    The bosom of the blushing west—

  The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
    Raising the moon her silver shield,
  And summoning the stars to guard
    The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!

  The faithful
poem
  Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I fill,
  And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill,
  Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot
  As e'er drew a spigot, or drain'd a full pot—
  In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass,
  And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his glass