Alfred Noyes was an English poet, best known for his ballads, "The Highwayman" and "The Barrel-Organ."
Noyes was born in Wolverhampton, England, the son of Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes. When he was four, the family moved to Aberystwyth, Wales, where his father taught Latin and Greek. The Welsh coast and mountains were an early inspiration to Noyes. In 1898, he left Aberystwyth for Exeter College, Oxford, where he distinguished himself at rowing, but failed to get his degree because, on a crucial day of his finals in 1902, he was meeting his publisher to arrange publication of his first volume of poems, The Loom of Years ... more »
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Alfred Noyes Poems
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding--
Daddy Fell into the Pond.
Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey. We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
A Song of Sherwood
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake, Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
A Loom of Years
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea, In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree, Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears, I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
A Prayer in Time of War
The war will change many things in art and life, and among them, it is to be hoped, many of our own ideas as to what is, and what is not, "intellectual." Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea, Whose footsteps are not known,
The Admiral's Ghost
I tell you a tale to-night Which a seaman told to me, With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light And a voice as low as the sea.
I Yes! Beauty still rebels! Our dreams like clouds disperse:
I came to the door of the House of Love And knocked as the starry night went by; And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "It is I."
Once more I hear the everlasting sea Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast, Come unto Me, come unto Me,
When Shakespeare came to London He met no shouting throngs; He carried in his knapsack A scroll of quiet songs.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
Shadows on the Down
When daffodils danced in Chuck Hatch, and white clouds Drew their own shadowy purple across the hills, Darkening the valley where the small flint church The Saxon built stood roofless to the sun,
The Elfin Artist
In a glade of an elfin forest When Sussex was Eden-new, I came on an elvish painter And watched as his picture grew,
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake; Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,