Sydney Thompson Dobell

(1824-1874 / England)

Sydney Thompson Dobell Poems

41. Fragment Of Ballad 4/12/2010
42. To Mrs. J.S. Blackie 4/12/2010
43. The Snowdrop In The Snow 4/12/2010
44. The Olive 4/12/2010
45. The Wounded 4/12/2010
46. The Botanist's Vision 4/12/2010
47. Sister To Sister 4/12/2010
48. The Convalescent To Her Physician 4/12/2010
49. Epigram On The Death Of Edward Forbes 1/1/2004
50. The German Legion 4/12/2010
51. The Little Girl's Song 4/12/2010
52. The Recruit's Ball 4/12/2010
53. Under Especial Blessing 4/12/2010
54. Wind 4/12/2010
55. The Gaberlunzie's Walk 4/12/2010
56. Poland - Italy - Hungary 4/12/2010
57. Desolate 4/12/2010
58. Liberty To M. Le Diplomate 4/12/2010
59. Snowdrops 4/12/2010
60. The Magyar's New-Year-Eve 4/12/2010
61. The Orphan's Song 4/12/2010
62. Warning 4/12/2010
63. Perhaps 4/12/2010
64. Sea Ballad - From 1/1/2004
65. The Sailor's Return 4/12/2010
66. The Market-Wife's Song 4/12/2010
67. The Captain's Wife 4/12/2010
68. Fragment Of A Sleep-Song 1/1/2004
69. Lady Constance 4/12/2010
70. Keith Of Ravelston 4/12/2010
71. To An American Embassy 4/12/2010
72. To Tochterchen: On Her Birthday 4/12/2010
73. New-Year's Eve 4/12/2010
74. L'Avenir 4/12/2010
75. Love And Beauty: Ii: To The Same 4/12/2010
76. The Young Man's Song 4/12/2010
77. The Youth Of England To Garibaldi's Legend 4/12/2010
78. The Harps Of Heaven 4/12/2010
79. The Sodger's Lassie 4/12/2010
80. The Widow's Lullaby 4/12/2010

Comments about Sydney Thompson Dobell

  • john 5 characters (4/19/2020 7:02:00 PM)

    I believe these poems are about deep space.

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Best Poem of Sydney Thompson Dobell

Tommy's Dead

YOU may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bread;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither ...

Read the full of Tommy's Dead

Laus Deo

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.
At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.
The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was
wed--
And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.
Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door,
And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor,
And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;

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