Archibald Lampman

(17 November 1861 - 10 February 1899 / Morpeth, Ontario)

Archibald Lampman Poems

1. The Return Of The Year 4/8/2010
2. Good Speech 4/8/2010
3. Comfort 4/8/2010
4. The Cup Of Life 4/8/2010
5. Love-Doubt 4/8/2010
6. March 4/8/2010
7. Love-Wonder 4/8/2010
8. June 4/8/2010
9. The Monk 4/8/2010
10. Despondency 4/8/2010
11. Easter Eve 4/8/2010
12. The King's Sabbath 4/8/2010
13. The Poet's Song 4/8/2010
14. The Poet's Possession 4/8/2010
15. The Coming Of Winter 4/8/2010
16. Winter-Store 4/8/2010
17. Winter-Thought 4/8/2010
18. Winter 4/8/2010
19. Freedom 4/8/2010
20. Gentleness 4/8/2010
21. Lament Of The Winds 4/8/2010
22. Deeds 4/8/2010
23. At The Ferry 4/8/2010
24. Before Sleep 4/8/2010
25. Between The Rapids 4/8/2010
26. War 4/8/2010
27. In Beechwood Cemetery 1/1/2004
28. Midsummer Night 4/8/2010
29. The City (2) 4/8/2010
30. The Song Of Pan 4/8/2010
31. Autumn Maples 4/8/2010
32. Favorites Of Pan 4/8/2010
33. With The Night 4/8/2010
34. Chione 4/8/2010
35. In March 4/8/2010
36. The Three Pilgrims 4/8/2010
37. What Do Poets Want With Gold? 4/8/2010
38. The Islet And The Palm 4/8/2010
39. One Day 4/8/2010
40. Passion 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Archibald Lampman

A Thunderstorm

A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,
The hurrying centres of the storm unite
And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,
Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge,
Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height,
With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,
And pelted waters, on the vanished plain
Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash
That splits abroad the pealing ...

Read the full of A Thunderstorm

A January Morning

The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently.
Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
The slender misty city towers up-borne
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs

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