Bryan Waller Procter who wrote under the name Barry Cornwall was an English poet.
Born at Leeds, Yorkshire, he was educated at Harrow School, where he had for contemporaries Lord Byron and Robert Peel. On leaving school he was placed in the office of a solicitor at Calne, Wiltshire, remaining there until about 1807, when he returned to London to study law. By the death of his father in 1816 he became possessed of a small property, and soon after entered into partnership with a solicitor; but in 1820 the partnership was dissolved, and he began to write under the pseudonym of "Barry Cornwall".
After his marriage in 1824 to Miss Skepper, daughter ... more »
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Barry Cornwall Poems
THE SEA! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;
The New-born Baby's Song
When I was twenty inches long, I could not hear the thrush's song; The radiance of the morning skies Was most displeasing to my eyes.
Sit Down, Sad Soul
SIT down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come,—tell the sweet amount That ’s lost by sighing!
The Blood Horse
GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known;
A Petition To Time
TOUCH us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream.
The poplars in the fields of France Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun.
The Old Witch in the Copse
I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch, There's many a one knows that-- Alone I live in my little dark house With Pillycock, my cat.
The Poet's Song To His Wife
HOW many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine?
I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear.
WE are born; we laugh; we weep; We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? Why do we live, or die?
The Stormy Petrel
A THOUSAND miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring sea; From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn: The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound, Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Peace! What Do Tears Avail?
PEACE! what do tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye The spirit of lovely life is fading,
SING, I pray, a little song, Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
THE SEA! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I ’m on the sea! I ’m on the sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe’er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love, O, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad ...