Poetry Archives

1

My first is no proof of my second,
  Though my second’s a proof of my first:
If I were my whole I should tell you
  Quite freely my best and my worst.

One clue more: if you fail to discover
  My meaning, you’re blind as a mole;
But if you will frankly confess it,
  You show yourself clearly my whole.

2

My first may be the firstborn,
  The second child may be;
My second is a texture light
  And elegant to see:
My whole do those too often write
  Who are from talent free.

3

How many authors are my first!
  And I shall be so too
Unless I finish speedily
  That which I have to do.

My second is a lofty tree
  And a delicious fruit;
This in the hot-house flourishes—
  That amid rocks takes root.

My whole is an immortal queen
  Renowned in classic lore:
Her a god won without her will,
  And her a goddess bore.

4

Me you often meet
  In London’s crowded street,
And merry children’s voices my resting-place proclaim.
  Pictures and prose and verse
Compose me—I rehearse
  Evil and good and folly, and call each by its name.
I make men glad, and I
  Can bid their senses fly,
And festive echoes know me of Isis and of Cam.
  But give me to a friend,
And amity will end,
  Though he may have the temper and meekness of a lamb.