Archibald Lampman

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

Archibald Lampman Poems

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

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,
And pelted waters, on the vanished plain
Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash
That splits abroad the pealing ...

Read the full of A Thunderstorm

The Growth Of Love Xi

XI
Belovèd, those who moan of love's brief day
Shall find but little grace with me, I guess,
Who know too well this passion's tenderness
To deem that it shall lightly pass away,
A moment's interlude in life's dull play;
Though many loves have lingered to distress,
So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless,
But deepen with us till both heads be grey.

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