John Kenyon Poems

We loved that Upper Austrian land;
And who, that knows, would love it less?
Which, as it seems, alike the hand
...

By winds diverse of doctrine blown,
Old Spurio, lately bigot fix'd,
Hath now no creed to call his own,
But slants him on, some two betwixt.
...

'Twas not satiety—disgust—
That led a wanderer forth to roam,
To look for hearts of firmer trust,
Or brighter eyes—thus far from home;
...

Oh! how I hate the cumbrous pride
Of plume and pall and scutcheon'd hearse,
And all the rank and ready tide
...

Thames swept along in summer pride,
Sparkling beneath his verdant edge;
With frolic kiss, as, half-denied,
...

When Zoë turns to look or speak,
We feel a spell the heart beguile.
Dwells it in pure transparent cheek;
In laughing eye, or frolic smile?
...

The bees, Sir, wont sting you; then why this ado?
And for honey—they'll never make honey of you—
...

Chloris! I cannot help but blush
To meet that dark and glancing eye;
Sportive you mark the sudden flush,
...

Graceful Palms of Bordighiera!
Bending o'er the Riviëra;
Tho' by Devon's wave we've seen
...

We win, where least we care to strive;
And where the most we strive—we miss.
Old Hannibal, if now alive,
...