Archibald Lampman

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

Archibald Lampman Poems

121. The Truth 4/8/2010
122. Alcyone 4/8/2010
123. Snow 4/8/2010
124. An October Sunset 4/8/2010
125. An Ode To The Hills 4/8/2010
126. A Ballade Of Waiting 4/8/2010
127. The Growth Of Love Xi 1/1/2004
128. An Athenian Reverie 4/8/2010
129. After Rain 4/8/2010
130. Among The Millet 4/8/2010
131. Among The Timothy 4/8/2010
132. Winter Break 4/8/2010
133. Solitude 4/8/2010
134. A Prayer 4/8/2010
135. Temagami 1/1/2004
136. Abu Midjan 4/8/2010
137. An Autumn Landscape 4/8/2010
138. An Impression 4/8/2010
139. Midnight 1/1/2004
140. Morning On The Lièvre 1/1/2004
141. Among The Orchards 4/8/2010
142. Winter Uplands 1/1/2004
143. The City At The End Of Things 1/1/2004
144. Winter-Solitude 1/1/2004
145. In November (2) 1/1/2004
146. A Vision Of Twilight 4/8/2010
147. In October 4/8/2010
148. Winter Evening 1/1/2004
149. A Niagara Landscape 1/1/2004
150. Heat 1/1/2004
151. To A Millionaire 1/1/2004
152. A January Morning 1/1/2004
153. Voices Of Earth 1/1/2004
154. In November (1) 1/1/2004
155. A Song 4/8/2010
156. A Thunderstorm 1/1/2004
157. A Night Of Storm 4/8/2010

Comments about Archibald Lampman

  • Paul Reed Paul Reed (12/18/2013 8:26:00 AM)

    Haunting and inspriing poetry

    8 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
Best Poem of Archibald Lampman

A Night Of Storm

Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown,
With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,
Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,
From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken
In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,
Dense as night's darkness round they towers of stone.

Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;
More dark and strange thy veiled agony,
City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden
What stormier woes, what lives that ...

Read the full of A Night Of Storm

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,

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