Read poetry books for free and without registration


One of the ancients,once said that poetry is "the mirror of the perfect soul." Instead of simply writing down travel notes or, not really thinking about the consequences, expressing your thoughts, memories or on paper, the poetic soul needs to seriously work hard to clothe the perfect content in an even more perfect poetic form.
On our website we can observe huge selection of electronic books for free. The registration in this electronic library isn’t required. Your e-library is always online with you. Reading ebooks on our website will help to be aware of bestsellers , without even leaving home.


What is poetry?


Reading books RomanceThe unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies.
Not every citizen can become a poet. If almost every one of us, at different times, under the influence of certain reasons or trends, was engaged in writing his thoughts, then it is unlikely that the vast majority will be able to admit to themselves that they are a poet.
Genre of poetry touches such strings in the human soul, the existence of which a person either didn’t suspect, or lowered them to the very bottom, intending to give them delight.


There are poets whose work, without exaggeration, belongs to the treasures of human thought and rightly is a world heritage. In our electronic library you will find a wide variety of poetry.
Opening a new collection of poems, the reader thus discovers a new world, a new thought, a new form. Rereading the classics, a person receives a magnificent aesthetic pleasure, which doesn’t disappear with the slamming of the book, but accompanies him for a very long time like a Muse. And it isn’t at all necessary to be a poet in order for the Muse to visit you. It is enough to pick up a volume, inside of which is Poetry. Be with us on our website.

Read books online » Poetry » Songs Of The Road by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖

Book online «Songs Of The Road by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖». Author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



1 ... 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13
Go to page:
wood.

Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?
Who is it who murmurs in the night?
You say it is the roar
Of the wave upon the shore,
But there's some one who murmurs in the
night.

[116] Father, father, who is that who laughs
at us?
Who is it who chuckles in the glen?
Oh, father, let us go,
For the light is burning low,
And there's somebody laughing in the
glen.

Father, father, tell me what you're waiting
for,
Tell me why your eyes are on the
door.
It is dark and it is late,
But you sit so still and straight,
Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.


THE MESSAGE
[117]

(From Heine)

Up, dear laddie, saddle quick,
And spring upon the leather!
Away post haste o'er fell and waste
With whip and spur together!

And when you win to Duncan's kin
Draw one of them aside
And shortly say, "Which daughter may
We welcome as the bride?"

And if he says, "It is the dark,"
Then quickly bring the mare,
But if he says, "It is the blonde,"
Then you have time to spare;

[118] But buy from off the saddler man
The stoutest cord you see,
Ride at your ease and say no word,
But bring it back to me.


THE ECHO
[119]

(After Heine)

Through the lonely mountain land
There rode a cavalier.
"Oh ride I to my darling's arms,
Or to the grave so drear?"
The Echo answered clear,
"The grave so drear."

So onward rode the cavalier
And clouded was his brow.
"If now my hour be truly come,
Ah well, it must be now!"
The Echo answered low,
"It must be now."


ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR
[120]

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!

Never strain
Weary brain,
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.

[121] Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Nerve stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.

Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse.
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!


A LILT OF THE ROAD
[122]

Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908

To St. Albans' town we came;
Roman Albanus hence the name.
Whose shrine commemorates the faith
Which led him to a martyr's death.
A high cathedral marks his grave,
With noble screen and sculptured nave.
From thence to Hatfield lay our way,
Where the proud Cecils held their sway,
And ruled the country, more or less,
Since the days of Good Queen Bess.
Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold
To Bedford, where in days of old
[123] John Bunyan, the unorthodox,
Did a deal in local stocks.
Then from Bedford's peaceful nook
Our pilgrim's progress still we took
Until we slackened up our pace
In Saint Neots' market-place.

Next day, the motor flying fast,
Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford
passed,
Until at Doncaster we found
That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's
bound.
Northward and ever North we pressed,
The Bronte Country to our West.
Still on we flew without a wait,
Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,
[124] And through a wild and dark ravine,
As bleak a pass as we have seen,
Until we slowly circled down
And settled into Settle town.

On Sunday, in the pouring rain,
We started on our way again.
Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,
The weary rain-clouds still above,
Until at last at Windermere
We felt our final port was near,
Thence the lake with wooded beach
Stretches far as eye can reach.
There above its shining breast
We enjoyed our welcome rest.
Tuesday saw us still in rain —
Buzzing on our road again.

[125] Rydal first, the smallest lake,
Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;
Grasmere next appeared in sight,
Grim Helvellyn on the right,
Till we made our downward way
To the streets of Keswick gray.
Then amid a weary waste
On to Penrith Town we raced,
And for many a flying mile,
Past the ramparts of Carlisle,
Till we crossed the border line
Of the land of Auld lang syne.
Here we paused at Gretna Green,
Where many curious things were seen
At the grimy blacksmith's shop,
Where flying couples used to stop
And forge within the smithy door
The chain which lasts for evermore.

[126] They'd soon be back again, I think,
If blacksmith's skill could break the link.
Ecclefechan held us next,
Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed
By the clamour and the strife
Of this strange and varied life.
We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,
We saw the stone on which he sat.
The solid stone is resting there,
But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?

Over a dreary wilderness
We had to take our path by guess,
For Scotland's glories don't include
The use of signs to mark the road.
For forty miles the way ran steep
Over bleak hills with scattered sheep,
[127] Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,
We saw the stately towers rise
Where noble Edinburgh lies —
No city fairer or more grand
Has ever sprung from human hand.
But I must add (the more's the pity)
That though in fair Dunedin's city
Scotland's taste is quite delightful,
The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.

When in other lands I roam
And sing "There is no place like home."
In this respect I must confess
That no place has its ugliness.
Here on my mother's granite breast
We settled down and took our rest.
On Saturday we ventured forth
To push our journey to the North.

[128] Past Linlithgow first we sped,
1 ... 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13
Go to page:

Free ebook «Songs Of The Road by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment