Faith poems
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Burns
© Charles Harpur
MY OWN WILD BURNS! these rude-wrought rhymes of thine
In golden worth are like the unshapely coin
Of some new realm, yet pure as from the mine
And Art may well be spared with such alloy
As dims the bullion to improve the die!
Dont talk to me of War
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Dont talk to me of War or stalk the ground
our fabled soldiers died upon, Im sound
of limb and strong of will, my mind as clear
as when we learnt those gory lessons founded
Faustus And Helen
© Arthur Symons
HELEN
Have I slept long? You waken me from sleep.
I have forgotten something: what is it?
The Reply Of The Fountain
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
HOW deep within each human heart,
A thousand treasured feelings lie;
Things precious, delicate, apart,
Too sensitive for human eye.
Death
© George Herbert
Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
A monument in words
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Perhaps they cant compete these dry and dusty counters
of the grains of sand, theres more evoked within a ball of
dimpled clay on any day a sculptor lends his hands to shape
a face; I am pleased to read the poet rather than the man
and will not place my future faith in such abstruse scatology.
© I.D. Carswell
The Morning Watch
© Jones Very
'Tis near the morning watch, the dim lamp burns
But scarcely shows how dark the slumbering street;
Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell
© Denise Levertov
Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
Stepping Westward
© Denise Levertov
What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
Sonnet: "It is not to be thought of"
© William Wordsworth
IT is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Everything That Acts Is Actual
© Denise Levertov
into December? a lowland
of space, perception of space
towering of shadows of clouds blown upon
clouds over new ground, new made
under heavy December footsteps? the only
way to live?
The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble
© John Gay
Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fallen calf;
Wo worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.
The Spirit Of Great Joan
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Back of each soldier who fights for France,
Aye, back of each woman and man
Verses III
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Written by the same lady on seeing her two sons
at play.
SWEET age of bless'd delusion! blooming boys,
Ah! revel long in childhood's thoughtless joys,
With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop
To follow, sportively, the rolling hoop;
The City Of The Dead XX
© Khalil Gibran
Yesterday I drew myself from the noisome throngs and proceeded into the field until I reached a knoll upon which Nature had spread her comely garments. Now I could breathe.
I looked back, and the city appeared with its magnificent mosques and stately residences veiled by the smoke of the shops.
The Dream of Eugene Aram
© Thomas Hood
'Twas in the prime of summer-time
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Faithless Sally Brown
© Thomas Hood
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
Faithless Nelly Gray
© Thomas Hood
Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms.
The Golden Legend: VI. The School Of Salerno
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
_Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain,
That a word which is only conceived in the brain
Is a type of eternal Generation;
The spoken word is the Incarnation.
Sixth Sunday After Epiphany
© John Keble
There are, who darkling and alone,
Would wish the weary night were gone,
