A Song.

I hear a Song
    I think 'tis a thrush's.
He sings to the Wild Rose
    See how she blushes!

Lizzie Lawson

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Lizzie Lawson

The Story Book Fairy.

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

Bedtime.

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

Christmas Roses

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Thrush

Across the land came a magic word
When the earth was bare and lonely,
And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
For 'twas I who heard, I only!
Then dreams came by, of the gladsome days,
Of many a wayside posy;
For a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps,
And the willow wands are rosy!

Oh! the time to be! When the paths are green,
When the primrose-gold is lying
'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway,
And the dear south wind comes sighing.

My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
So snug and warm and cosy,
When the kingcups gleam on the meadow stream,
Where the willow wands are rosy!

Fay Inchfawn

Blooming Nelly.

Tune - "*On a bank of flowers.*"

I.

    On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
        For summer lightly drest,
    The youthful blooming Nelly lay,
        With love and sleep opprest;
    When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood,
        Who for her favour oft had sued,
    He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
        And trembled where he stood.

II.

    Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd,
        Were seal'd in soft repose;
    Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd,
        It richer dy'd the rose.
    The springing lilies sweetly prest,
        Wild. wanton, kiss'd her rival breast;
    He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
        His bosom ill at rest.

III.

    Her robes light waving in the breeze
        Her tender limbs embrace;
    Her lovely form, her native ease,
        All harmony and grace:
    Tumultuou...

Robert Burns

Song

[W.S.]


With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!
    O the shepherd lad
    He is ne'er so glad
As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,
    So rare!
While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.
    So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!
    Then he sips her face
    At the sweetest place -
And ho! how white is the hawthorn now! -
    So rare! -
And the daisied world rocks round them there.
    So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

James Whitcomb Riley

An Irish Blackbird

This is my brave singer,
        With his beak of gold;
Now my hearts a captive
        In his songs sweet hold.

O, the larks a rover,
        Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
        Hath a human love.

Hark! he says, in winter
        Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
        Summer breezes blow.

Hush! he sings, with night-time
        Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
        Piping on his tree.

O, my little lover,
        Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
        Skies so wide for you.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Thrush's Nest

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and, often an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toils from day to day--
How true she warped the moss, to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted-over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed in the sunny hours
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

John Clare

To Hear Her Sing.

    To hear her sing - to hear her sing -
    It is to hear the birds of Spring
    In dewy groves on blooming sprays
    Pour out their blithest roundelays.

    It is to hear the robin trill
    At morning, or the whip-poor-will
    At dusk, when stars are blossoming -
    To hear her sing - to hear her sing!

    To hear her sing - it is to hear
    The laugh of childhood ringing clear
    In woody path or grassy lane
    Our feet may never fare again.

    Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
    It is to hear the village bells
    At twilight, as the truant hears
    Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

    Such joy it is to hear her sing,
    We fall in love with everything -
    The simple things of every day
   ...

James Whitcomb Riley