Archibald Lampman

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

Archibald Lampman Poems

121. An Impression 4/8/2010
122. Snowbirds 4/8/2010
123. Viva Perpetua 4/8/2010
124. The Truth 4/8/2010
125. Midnight 1/1/2004
126. Alcyone 4/8/2010
127. An October Sunset 4/8/2010
128. An Ode To The Hills 4/8/2010
129. Temagami 1/1/2004
130. A Ballade Of Waiting 4/8/2010
131. The Growth Of Love Xi 1/1/2004
132. An Athenian Reverie 4/8/2010
133. The Railway Station 1/1/2004
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. Heat 1/1/2004
153. Voices Of Earth 1/1/2004
154. A January Morning 1/1/2004
155. To A Millionaire 1/1/2004
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

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.

[Report Error]