Faith poems
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A Song Of Harvest
© John Greenleaf Whittier
This day, two hundred years ago,
The wild grape by the river's side,
And tasteless groundnut trailing low,
The table of the woods supplied.
To The Memory Of Heber
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius call'd too soon away,
Of light, from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day;
How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, oh, Thou of many gifts! for thee?
Epilogue: Songs Before Sunrise
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Between the wave-ridge and the strand
I let you forth in sight of land,
Twenty-First Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
The morning mist is cleared away,
Yet still the face of Heaven is grey,
Nor yet this autumnal breeze has stirred the grove,
Faded yet full, a paler green
Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,
The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.
Gaspara Stampa
© William Rose Benet
I burned, I wept, I sang: I burn, sing, weep again,
And I shall weep and sing, I shall forever burn
Until or death or time or fortunes turn
Shall still my eye and heart, still fire and pain.
The Countess
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Over the wooded northern ridge,
Between its houses brown,
To the dark tunnel of the bridge
The street comes straggling down.
A Scrap of Paper
© Henry Van Dyke
"Will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?" - Question
of the German Chancellor to the British Ambassador,
August 5, 1914.
Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Pharsalia - Book VIII: Death Of Pompeius
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
Hard the task imposed;
Yet doffed his robe, and swift obeyed, the king
Wrapped in a servant's mantle. If a Prince
For safety play the boor, then happier, sure,
The peasant's lot than lordship of the world.
Lines On A Friend, Who Died Of A Frenzy Fever, Induced By Calumnious Reports
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Rest, injured shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,
And oft sit down upon its recent grass,
With introverted eye I contemplate
Similitude of soul, perhaps of -- fate!
To the Reverend George Coleridge, of Ottery St. Mary, Devon
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A blessed lot hath he, who having past
His youth and early manhood in the stir
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXIX
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Ancient of days! What word is thy command
To one befooled of wit and his own way?
What counsel hast thou, and what chastening hand
For a lost soul grown old in its dismay?
The Wonder-Working Magician - Act I
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
TO THE MEMORY OF
SHELLEY,
WHOSE ADMIRATION FOR
"THE LIGHT AND ODOUR OF THE FLOWERY AND STARRY AUTOS"
IS THE HIGHEST TRIBUTE TO THE BEAUTY OF
CALDERON'S POETRY,
The Lady Of La Garaye - Part II
© Caroline Norton
A FIRST walk after sickness: the sweet breeze
That murmurs welcome in the bending trees,
When the cold shadowy foe of life departs,
And the warm blood flows freely through our hearts:
On The Decline Of Faith
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
AS in some half-burned forest, one by one,
We catch far echoes on the doleful breeze,
Born of the downfall of its ruined trees;
While even thro' those which stand, slow shudderings run,
Courage
© Peter McArthur
THE dead are buried facing to the sun,
In foolish epitaphs their faith is told,
To his unconstant Friend
© Henry King
But say thou very woman, why to me
This fit of weakness and inconstancie?
What forfeit have I made of word or vow,
That I am rack't on thy displeasure now?
