Poesia: The Lost Sheep - Elizabeth Cecilia Clephane

The Lost Sheep - Elizabeth Cecilia Clephane

“The Ninety and Nine”

THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold;
But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold,
Away on the mountains wild and bare, 5
Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.

“Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:
Are they not enough for thee?”
But the Shepherd made answer: “’T is of mine
Has wander’d away from me; 10
And although the road be rough and steep
I go to the desert to find my sheep.”

But none of the ransom’d ever knew
How deep were the waters cross’d,
Nor how dark was the night that the Lord pass’d through 15
Ere he found his sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert he heard its cry—
Sick and helpless, and ready to die.

“Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way,
That mark out the mountain track?” 20
“They were shed for one who had gone astray
Ere the Shepherd could bring him back.”
“Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?”
“They are pierced to-night by many a thorn.”

But all through the mountains, thunderriven, 25
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
“Rejoice! I have found my sheep!”
And the angels echoed around the throne,
“Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!”

Love (III) George Herbert
Love's Horoscope Richard Crashaw
Mother Mind Julia Ward Howe
Mouse's Nest John Clare
My Last Duchess Robert Browning
Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats
Ode Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
The Oxen Thomas Hardy
The Rollicking Mastadon Arthur Macy
Sonnet 018 William Shakespeare
Sympathy Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Three Ravens Unknown
To the Virgins, to make much of Time Robert Herrick
Twas the Night Before Christmas (A Visit From St. Nicholas) Clement Clarke Moore
The Witch Mary Coleridge

In Neglect - Robert Frost

THEY leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

Her Reply - Sir Walter Raleigh

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither--soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,--
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

A Friend’s Greeting - Edgar A. Guest

I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me;
I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be;
I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day
As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.

I'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you,
To brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue;
I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard,
And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred.

I'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me,
Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be;
I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on
Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon.

I'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay
A portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way;
And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be:
I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.

The Author to Her Book Anne Bradstreet

Short Poetry Collection 019