John William Inchbold

(1830-1888 / England)

John William Inchbold Poems

41. Stratford-On-Avon 10/13/2010
42. The Abbey 10/13/2010
43. The Afterglow 10/13/2010
44. The Eastern Love Song 10/13/2010
45. The Furnace 10/13/2010
46. The Lonely Life 10/13/2010
47. The Recluse 10/13/2010
48. The Sigh 10/13/2010
49. The Swallows 10/13/2010
50. The Unknown 10/13/2010
51. The Violets 10/13/2010
52. The Wreck 10/13/2010
53. Time 10/13/2010
54. With Love Dead 10/13/2010
55. Youth 10/13/2010
Best Poem of John William Inchbold

Art

Mysterious force, as beautiful as strange,
And pure with beauty and with mystery,
Queen of the world in wide extent of range,
Through every motion of the sky and sea,
And the sweet mother of all joy, our Earth
Whether in moment of her snowy rest,
Or autumn eve, or summer noon, or birth
Of spring time o'er an Alpine mountain's crest,
To touch thy robe is life, but to receive
Thy touch of fiery lip, then pierce with eye
Made clear and strong, and afterwards to weave
With all our heart, fair forms that cannot die:—
This bliss supreme being ours, thine own free ...

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A Stranger

Whence hither come, and by what fortune led?
To bring such sweet content, such happy rest,
Have we not clear and mutual knowledge fed
In some far time or place? Come, let us test:
You list when groves a summer music breathe,
You think pure thoughts when white clouds sail the sky:
The violet is fairest in the wreath
Wherewith you deck love's years as they go by,
You smile at fruitless joys, though passing fair

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