Joanna Baillie

(1762-1851 / Scotland)

Joanna Baillie Poems

161. On Burning A Packet Of Letters Received From A Friend At An Early Period Of Life, Whose Correspondence Had Lapsed Into Silence, And Whose Friendship Into Apathy. 4/15/2010
162. Lines To Agnes Baillie On Her Birthday 4/15/2010
163. Lines On The Death Of William Sotheby, Esq 4/15/2010
164. Fy, Let Us A’ To The Wedding 4/15/2010
165. A Song Written For An Irish Melody 4/15/2010
166. A Sailor’s Song 4/15/2010
167. A Disappointment 4/15/2010
168. Life 4/15/2010
169. Lord John Of The East 4/15/2010
170. Tomorrow 4/15/2010
171. To A Child 4/15/2010
172. To The Lark 4/15/2010
173. Hope And Memory 4/15/2010
174. Devotional Song For A Negro Child 4/15/2010
175. A Hymn 4/15/2010
176. A Portrait 4/15/2010
177. Address To A Steam-Vessel 4/15/2010
178. Lines To A Parrot 4/15/2010
179. Song #8 4/15/2010
180. William Wallace 4/15/2010
181. To Memory 4/15/2010
182. The Outlaw's Song 1/4/2003
183. A Character 4/15/2010
184. On Memory 4/15/2010
185. Thunder 4/15/2010
186. Lines To A Teapot 4/15/2010
187. Belshazzar’s Feast 4/15/2010
188. A Mother To Her Waking Infant 4/15/2010
189. Hay-Making 4/15/2010
190. A Winter Day 4/15/2010
191. To The Rainbow 4/15/2010
192. A Child To His Sick Grandfather 4/15/2010
193. Song, Woo’d And Married And A’ 4/15/2010
194. London 4/15/2010
195. A Summer Day 4/15/2010

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Best Poem of Joanna Baillie

A Summer Day

The dark-blue clouds of night in dusky lines,
Drawn wide and streaky o'er the purer sky,
Wear faint the morning purple on their skirts.
The stars that full and bright shone in the west,
But dimly twinkle to the stedfast eye;
And seen, and vanishing, and seen again,
Like dying tapers smoth'ring in their sockets,
Appear at last shut from the face of heav'n;
Whilst every lesser flame which shone by night,
The flashy meteor from the op'ning cloud,
That shoots full oft' across the dusky sky;
Or wand'ring fire which looks across the marsh,
Beaming like candle in a...

Read the full of A Summer Day

A Disappointment

On village green, whose smooth and well worn sod,
Cross-path'd with every gossip's foot is trod;
By cottage door where playful children run,
And cats and curs sit basking in the sun:
Where o'er the earthen seat the thorn is bent,
Cross-arm'd, and back to wall, poor William leant.
His bonnet broad drawn o'er his gather'd brow,
His hanging lip and lengthen'd visage shew
A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange,

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