Personal Names,

There was a great swell in Japan,
Whose name on a Tuesday began;
    It lasted through Sunday
    Till twilight on Monday,
And sounded like stones in a can.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. LXX. Tales.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Misers

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DCXLV. Relics.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. XCIV. Proverbs.

Unknown , 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.

Kisses

There was a young sailor of Lyd,
Who loved a fair Japanese kid;
    When it came to good-bye,
    They were eager but shy,
So they put up a sunshade and - did.

Unknown

Nippon

Last night, I dreamed of Nippon....
    I saw a cloud of white
Drifting before the sunset
    On seas of opal light.

Beyond the wide Pacific
    I saw its mounded snow
Miraculously changing
    In that deep evening glow,

To rosy rifts and hillocks,
    To orchards that I knew,
To snows of peach and cherry,
    And feathers of bamboo.

I saw, on twisted bridges,
    In blue and crimson gleams,
The lanterns of the fishers,
    Along the brook of dreams.

I saw the wreaths of incense
    Like little ghosts arise,
From temples under Fuji,
    From Fuji to the skies.

I saw that fairy mountain....
    I watched it form and fade.
No doubt the gods were singing,
    When Nippon isle was made.

Alfred Noyes

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why--
made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.

But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down...
I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.

Anna Akhmatova

Names Upon a Stone

Across bleak widths of broken sea
A fierce north-easter breaks,
And makes a thunder on the lea
A whiteness of the lakes.
Here, while beyond the rainy stream
The wild winds sobbing blow,
I see the river of my dream
Four wasted years ago.

Narrara of the waterfalls,
The darling of the hills,
Whose home is under mountain walls
By many-luted rills!
Her bright green nooks and channels cool
I never more may see;
But, ah! the Past was beautiful
The sights that used to be.

There was a rock-pool in a glen
Beyond Narraras sands;
The mountains shut it in from men
In flowerful fairy lands;
But once we found its dwelling-place
The lovely and the lone
And, in a dream, I stooped to trace
Our names upon a stone.

Above ...

Henry Kendall

The Change

Out of the past there rises a week -
Who shall read the years O! -
Out of the past there rises a week
Enringed with a purple zone.
Out of the past there rises a week
When thoughts were strung too thick to speak,
And the magic of its lineaments remains with me alone.

In that week there was heard a singing -
Who shall spell the years, the years! -
In that week there was heard a singing,
And the white owl wondered why.
In that week, yea, a voice was ringing,
And forth from the casement were candles flinging
Radiance that fell on the deodar and lit up the path thereby.

Could that song have a mocking note? -
Who shall unroll the years O! -
Could that song have a mocking note
To the white owl's sense as it fell?
Could that song have a mocking n...

Thomas Hardy

A Sea Dream

We saw the slow tides go and come,
The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,
The gray rocks touched with tender bloom
Beneath the fresh-blown rose of dawn.

We saw in richer sunsets lost
The sombre pomp of showery noons;
And signalled spectral sails that crossed
The weird, low light of rising moons.

On stormy eves from cliff and head
We saw the white spray tossed and spurned;
While over all, in gold and red,
Its face of fire the lighthouse turned.

The rail-car brought its daily crowds,
Half curious, half indifferent,
Like passing sails or floating clouds,
We saw them as they came and went.

But, one calm morning, as we lay
And watched the mirage-lifted wall
Of coast, across the dreamy bay,
And heard afar the curlew call,
<...

John Greenleaf Whittier