Faith poems
/ page 60 of 262 /
The Latter Peace
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WE have passed the noonday summit,
We have left the noonday heat,
And down the hillside slowly
Descend our weary feet.
Yet the evening airs are balmy,
And the evening shadows sweet.
Laurance - [Part 3]
© Jean Ingelow
But when that other heard, "It is the end,"
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her.
Reason rebelled against it, but his will
Required it of him with a craving strong
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.
The Old School List
© James Kenneth Stephen
In a wild moraine of forgotten books,
On the glacier of years gone by,
As I plied my rake for order's sake,
There was one that caught my eye:
The Faithful Friend
© Caroline Norton
O, FRIEND! whose heart the grave doth shroud from human joy or woe,
Know'st thou who wanders by thy tomb, with footsteps sad and slow?
Know'st thou whose brow is dark with grief? whose eyes are dim with tears?
Whose restless soul is sinking with its agony of fears?
Whose hope hath fail'd, whose star hath sunk, whose firmest trust deceived,
Since, leaning on thy faithful breast, he loved and believed?
Don Juan: Canto The Seventh
© George Gordon Byron
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
HE IS NOT A POET
I would not, if I could, be called a poet.
I have no natural love of the ``chaste muse.''
If aught be worth the doing I would do it;
Stonewall Jackson
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE fashions and the forms of men decay,
The seasons perish, the calm sunsets die,
Ne'er with the same bright pomp of cloud or ray
To flush the golden pathways of the sky;
The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto II.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
IV A Distinction
The lack of lovely pride, in her
Who strives to please, my pleasure numbs,
And still the maid I most prefer
Whose care to please with pleasing comes.
Hudibras: Part 2 - Canto I
© Samuel Butler
Quoth she, I grant it is in vain.
For one that's basted to feel pain,
Because the pangs his bones endure
Contribute nothing to the cure:
Yet honor hurt, is wont to rage
With pain no med'cine can asswage.
Epitaphs Translated From Chiabrera
© William Wordsworth
I
WEEP not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life
Crystal Gazer
© Sylvia Plath
Gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent,
Lean face gone tawn with seasons ,
Skin worn down to the knucklebones
At her tough trade; without time's taint
The burnished ball hangs fire in her hands, a lens
Fusing time's three horizons.
Metamorphoses: Book The Tenth
© Ovid
The End of the Tenth Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
Woodnotes
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
II
As sunbeams stream through liberal space
And nothing jostle or displace,
So waved the pine-tree through my thought
And fanned the dreams it never brought.
Brought From Beyond
© Amy Clampitt
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd
predilection unheard of by Marco Polo
when he came upon, high in Badakhshan,
that blue stones
Easter-Day
© Robert Browning
XXXII.
Then did the Form expand, expand
I knew Him through the dread disguise,
As the whole God within his eyes
Embraced me.
Adjustment
© John Greenleaf Whittier
The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shed
That nearer heaven the living ones may climb;
Il Y A Cent Ans
© George Meredith
That march of the funereal Past behold;
How Glory sat on Bondage for its throne;
How men, like dazzled insects, through the mould
Still worked their way, and bled to keep their own.
The Improvisatore, Or, 'John Anderson, My Jo, John'
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes. Kate has a favour
to ask of you, Sir ; it is that you will repeat the ballad [Believe me if
all those endearing young charms.-EHC's ? note] that Mr. ____ sang so
sweetly.
