James Thomson

[Bysshe Vanolis] (23 November 1834 - 3 June 1882 / Port Glasgow, Scotland)

James Thomson Poems

1. A Chant 5/6/2012
2. The Doom Of A City 5/6/2012
3. The Doom Of A City Part Ii: The City 5/6/2012
4. E.B.B. 5/6/2012
5. From The Midst Of The Fire 5/6/2012
6. Insomnia 5/6/2012
7. Life's Hebe 5/6/2012
8. A Polish Insurgent 5/6/2012
9. A Recusant 5/6/2012
10. Through Foulest Fogs 5/6/2012
11. To A Pianiste 5/6/2012
12. To H.A.B. On My Forty-Seventh Birthday 5/6/2012
13. Virtue And Vice 5/6/2012
14. Lines On His Twenty-Third Birthday 5/6/2012
15. The Lord Of The Castle Of Indolence 5/6/2012
16. Lilah, Alice, Hypatia 5/6/2012
17. On George Herbert's Poems 5/6/2012
18. Sunday At Hampstead 1/3/2003
19. Four Points In A Life 1/3/2003
20. In The Room 1/3/2003
21. Proem 1/3/2003
22. The Naked Goddess 1/3/2003
23. In A Christian Churchyard 1/3/2003
24. Mr. Maccall At Cleveland Hall 1/3/2003
25. Mater Tenebrarum 1/3/2003
26. L'Ancien Regime 1/3/2003
27. The Vine 1/3/2003
28. Day 1/3/2003
29. Philosophy 1/3/2003
30. For I Must Sing Of All I Feel And Know 1/3/2003
31. In The Train 1/3/2003
32. Two Lovers 1/3/2003
33. A Song Of Sighing 1/3/2003
34. Two Sonnets 1/3/2003
35. Night 1/3/2003
36. Gifts 1/3/2003
37. Suggested By Matthew Arnold's Stanzas 1/3/2003
38. Art 1/3/2003
39. Approach To St. Paul's 1/3/2003
40. Once In A Saintly Passion 1/3/2003
Best Poem of James Thomson

The City Of Dreadful Night

Per me si va nella citta dolente.

--Dante

Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
Girando senza posa,
Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;
Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
Indovinar non so.

Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dell' antico dolor . . .
Pero ch' esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.

--Leopardi

PROEM

Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
My heart's deep languor and my ...

Read the full of The City Of Dreadful Night

L'Ancien Regime

Who has a thing to bring
For a gift to our lord the king,
Our king all kings above?
A young girl brought him love;
And he dowered her with shame,
With a sort of infamous fame,
And then with lonely years
Of penance and bitter tears --
Love is scarcely the thing

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