Sydney Thompson Dobell

(1824-1874 / England)

Sydney Thompson Dobell Poems

81. The Milkmaid's Song 4/12/2010
82. Song Of A Mad Girl, Whose Lover Has Died At Sea 4/12/2010
83. On Reading A Dictacted Letter 4/12/2010
84. Home In War-Time 1/1/2004
85. The Mother's Lesson 4/12/2010
86. The Common Grave 4/12/2010
87. A Chanted Calendar 1/1/2004
88. Love And Beauty: Iii: To A Fair Woman, Unsatisfied With Woman's Work 4/12/2010
89. Farewell 4/12/2010
90. Dedicatory 4/12/2010
91. A Health To The Queen 4/12/2010
92. A Shower In War-Time 4/12/2010
93. Crazed 4/12/2010
94. To 1862 4/12/2010
95. Lord Robert 4/12/2010
96. Deprecating A Gift 4/12/2010
97. A Musing On A Victory 4/12/2010
98. Daft Jean 4/12/2010
99. Mentana 4/12/2010
100. An Evening Dream 4/12/2010
101. Love: To A Little Girl 4/12/2010
102. Austrian Alliance 4/12/2010
103. She Touches A Sad String Of Soft Recall 4/12/2010
104. A Nupial Eve (Excerpt) 1/1/2004
105. A Hero's Grave 4/12/2010
106. Dead-Maid's-Pool 4/12/2010
107. Ballad 4/12/2010
108. At The Grave Of A Spanish Friend 4/12/2010
109. Bayonet Song 4/12/2010
110. Czar Nicholas 4/12/2010
111. Afloat And Ashore 4/12/2010
112. Alone 4/12/2010
113. Cavalry Charge At Balaclava 4/12/2010
114. A Statesman 4/12/2010
115. Tommy's Dead 1/1/2004
116. Childless 4/12/2010
117. An Autumn Mood 4/12/2010
118. America 1/1/2004
119. Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From 1/1/2004

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Best Poem of Sydney Thompson Dobell

Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From

Doctor. Ah! thou, too,
Sad Alighieri, like a waning moon
Setting in storm behind a grove of bays!
Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who wove his web
And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth
Immortal, having burn’d all that could burn,
And leaving only what shall still be found
Untouch’d, nor with the small of fire upon it,
Under the final ashes of this world.
Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton!
Balder. Switzerland and home.
I ne’er see Milton, but I see the Alps,
As once, sole standing on a peak supreme,
To the ...

Read the full of Dante, Shakespeare, Milton - From

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
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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