Archibald Lampman

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

Archibald Lampman Poems

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