A Sonnet In Dialogue.

FRANK (on the Lawn).
Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low.

MAY (in the House).
Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.

FRANK.
There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.

MAY.
They will be riper if we let them grow.

FRANK.
Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.

MAY.
Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.

FRANK.
But surely, May, your pony must be fed.

MAY.
And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.
'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.

FRANK.
Still, I had something you would like to hear.

MAY.
No doubt some new frivolity of men.

FRANK.
Nay,--'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores
Chiefly, I think....

MAY (coming to the window).
What is this secret, then?

FRANK (mysteriously).
There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!

Henry Austin Dobson

Henry Austin Dobson, commonly known as Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist. A civil servant by profession, Dobson was one of the most renowned poets and literary critics of the late Victorian and Edwardian periods. His work is noted for its delicate craftsmanship and profound interest in 18th-century literature. Dobson's poetry often revisited and celebrated historical themes and characters, blending scholarly interest with lyrical form.

Henry Austin Dobson

A Miltonic Exercise

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

In The Royal Academy.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

The Poet And The Critics.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

The Successful Author.

Henry Austin Dobson, 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.

Sonnet XLIII. To May, In The Year 1783.

My memory, long accustom'd to receive
    In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait
    Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date
    Thro' many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave,
As now, of the great SUN, serene to weave
    Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state
    To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,
    Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,
His mild illuminations. - Nymph, no more
    Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade
    Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore
Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;
    Meads dropt with [1]gold again to thee belong,
    Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.

1: Kingcups.

Anna Seward

At the Opera

The curtain rose, the play began,
The limelight on the gay garbs shone;
Yet carelessly I gazed upon
The painted players, maid and man,
As one with idle eyes who sees
The marble figures on a frieze.

Long lark-notes clear the first act close,
So the soprano: then a hush,
The tenor, tender as a thrush;
Then loud and high the chorus rose,
Till, with a sudden rush and strong,
It ended in a storm of song.

The curtain fell, the music died,
The lights grew bright, revealing there
The flash of jewelled fingers fair,
And wreaths of pearls on brows of pride;
Then, with a quick-flushed cheek, I turned,
And into mine her dark eyes burned.

Such eyes but once a man may see,
And, seeing once, his fancy dies
To thought of any other eyes:

Victor James Daley

Premiers Amours.

Old Loves and old dreams,--
"Requiescant in pace."
How strange now it seems,--
"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!
Yet we once wrote you reams
Maude, Alice, and Gracie!
Old Loves and old dreams,--
"Requiescant in pace."


When I called at the "Hollies" to-day,
In the room with the cedar-wood presses,
Aunt Deb. was just folding away
What she calls her "memorial dresses."

She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,--
Short-waisted, of course--my abhorrence;
She'd "the loveliest"--something in "een"
That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;

She'd the "jelick" she used--"as a Greek," (!)
She'd the habit she got her bad fall in;
She had e'en the blue moiré antique
That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:--

New and old ...

Henry Austin Dobson

Another Way Of Love

I.
June was not over
Though past the fall,
And the best of her roses
Had yet to blow,
When a man I know
(But shall not discover,
Since ears are dull,
And time discloses)
Turned him and said with a mans true air,
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as twere,
If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?

II.
Well, dear, in-doors with you!
True, serene deadness
Tries a mans temper.
Whats in the blossom
June wears on her bosom?
Can it clear scores with you?
Sweetness and redness.
Eadem semper!
Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!
If June mends her bowers now, your hand left unsightly
By plucking the roses, my June will do rightly.

III.
And after, for pastime,
If June be refulgent
With flo...

Robert Browning

Sonnet VI: To G. A. W.

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely? when gone far astray
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance,
Or when serenely wandering in a trance
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe to meet the morning ray,
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance?
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
And so remain, because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
That I can never tell what mood is best;
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

John Keats

House

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?
Do I live in a house you would like to see?
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?
Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?

Invite the world, as my betters have done?
Take notice: this building remains on view,
Its suites of reception every one,
Its private apartment and bedroom too;

For a ticket, apply to the Publisher.
No: thanking the public, I must decline.
A peep through my window, if folk prefer;
But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk
In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced
And a house stood gaping, naught to balk
Alans eye wherever he gazed or glanced.

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,
The inside gaped: exposed to da...

Robert Browning