Sir Lewis Morris

(1833 - 1907 / Carmarthen, Carmarthenshire)

Sir Lewis Morris Poems

1. A New Orphic Hymn 11/10/2014
2. Soul-Music 11/10/2014
3. Love's Mirror 11/10/2014
4. On A Young Poet 11/10/2014
5. To The Setting Sun 11/10/2014
6. The Treasure Of Hope 11/10/2014
7. The Legend Of Faith 11/11/2014
8. By The Sea 11/11/2014
9. Voices 11/11/2014
10. Waking 11/11/2014
11. At Havre De Grace 11/11/2014
12. When I Am Dead 11/11/2014
13. Love's Suicide 11/11/2014
14. The River Of Life 11/11/2014
15. Watch 11/11/2014
16. Drowned 11/11/2014
17. Truth In Falsehood 11/11/2014
18. The Weary River 11/11/2014
19. Two Voyages 11/11/2014
20. The Voice Of One Crying 11/11/2014
21. Dumb 11/12/2014
22. Faith Without Sight 11/12/2014
23. Caged 11/12/2014
24. Too Much Knowledge 11/12/2014
25. On An Old Minster 11/13/2014
26. Of Love And Sleep 11/13/2014
27. Blind 11/13/2014
28. To Her Picture 11/13/2014
29. The Return 11/13/2014
30. For Ever 11/13/2014
31. Visions 11/13/2014
32. Doubt 11/13/2014
33. St. David's Head 11/13/2014
34. In Volhynia 11/13/2014
35. The Living Past 11/13/2014
36. Changes 11/13/2014
37. Alone 11/13/2014
38. Sea Voices 11/14/2014
39. Berlin, 1871. 11/14/2014
40. The Beacon 11/14/2014

Comments about Sir Lewis Morris

  • Martin Elbin (11/14/2014 8:27:00 AM)

    wow. love this, images stories, ababcc balanced throughout, well written...congrats

    0 person liked.
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Best Poem of Sir Lewis Morris

Other Days

O THRUSH, your song is passing sweet,
But never a song that you have sung
Is half so sweet as thrushes sang
When my dear love and I were young.

O Roses, you are sweet and red,
Yet not so red nor sweet as were
The roses that my mistress loved
To bind within her flowing hair.

Time filches fragrance from the flower ;
Time steals the sweetness from the song;
Love only scorns the tyrant's power,
And with the growing years grows strong.

Read the full of Other Days

On A Young Poet

HERE lay him down in peace to take his rest,
Who tired of singing ere the day was done.
A little time, a little, beneath the sun,
He tarried and gave forth his artless song;
The bird that sings with the dawn, sings not for long,
Only when dew is on the grass his breast
Thrills, but his voice is silent long ere noon.
So sang he once, but might not long sustain
The high pure note of youth, for soon, too soon !

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