Barry Cornwall

(21 November 1787 – 5 October 1874 / Leeds, England)

Barry Cornwall Poems

1. Song (Here's A Health To Thee, Mary...) 3/6/2012
2. The Song Of A Felon's Wife 3/6/2012
3. King Death 3/6/2012
4. Serenade (Inesilla! I Am Here...) 3/6/2012
5. Golden-Tressed Adelaide 1/1/2004
6. A Poet’s Thought 1/1/2004
7. Peace! What Do Tears Avail? 1/1/2004
8. The Hunter’s Song 1/1/2004
9. The Stormy Petrel 1/1/2004
10. Life 1/1/2004
11. The Watch 1/1/2004
12. The Poet's Song To His Wife 1/1/2004
13. The Old Witch In The Copse 1/1/2004
14. In France 1/1/2004
15. The Blood Horse 1/1/2004
16. The New-Born Baby's Song 1/1/2004
17. A Petition To Time 1/1/2004
18. Sit Down, Sad Soul 1/1/2004
19. The Sea 1/1/2004

Comments about Barry Cornwall

  • Aaliyah (11/19/2019 8:09:00 PM)

    He is an great poet very imaginative mind.

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    0 person did not like.
  • Luke h (2/23/2019 10:36:00 AM)

    How old were you when you wrote the poem the sea

    2 person liked.
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  • daria (11/27/2018 2:41:00 PM)

    yo brill amazing poet i know you fantastico

    2 person liked.
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  • daria (11/27/2018 2:40:00 PM)

    i would like to know how old barry cornwall is for your info pls

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  • Pickled Onion (1/29/2005 6:46:00 AM)

    Sheer brilliance......................................................................?

    6 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
Best Poem of Barry Cornwall

Sit Down, Sad Soul

SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come,—tell the sweet amount
That ’s lost by sighing!
How many smiles?—a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying.

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.

We dream: do thou the same:
We love—for ever;
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies; ...

Read the full of Sit Down, Sad Soul

The Hunter’s Song

RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn

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