Sonnet

Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self!
No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest
Above the treasures of that perfect breast,
Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars
Through which thy soul awes ours:    yet thou art bound -
O waste of nature! - to a craven hound;
To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf;
Athene to a Satyr:    was that link
Forged by The Father's hand?    Man's reason bars
The bans which God allowed. - Ay, so we think:
Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest,
    Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great
    In martyrdom, than throned as Caesar's mate.

Eversley, 1851.

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

The Swan-Neck

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Drifting Away: A Fragment

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Scotch Song

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Young And Old

Charles Kingsley, 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 II: To ----

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
Yet must I doat upon thee, call thee sweet,
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

John Keats

The Sonnets XIII - O! that you were your self; but, love you are

O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourselfs decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winters day
And barren rage of deaths eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.

William Shakespeare

Sonnet.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
    O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
    Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet. To My Wife.

The curse of Adam, the old curse of all,
Though I inherit in this feverish life
Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife,
And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall,
Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall
I taste, through thee, my Eve, my sweet wife.
Then what was Man's lost Paradise! - how rife
Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall!
Such as our own pure passion still might frame,
Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'rs,
If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came
To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs; -
But oh! as many and such tears are ours,
As only should be shed for guilt and shame!

Thomas Hood

The Sonnet II

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frownd,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlockd his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarchs wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothd an exiles grief;
The Sonnet glitterd a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crownd
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheerd mild Spenser, calld from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains, alas, too few!

William Wordsworth

The Sonnets X - For shame! deny that thou bearst love to any

For shame! deny that thou bearst love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belovd of many,
But that thou none lovst is most evident:
For thou art so possessd with murderous hate,
That gainst thy self thou stickst not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodgd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

William Shakespeare