Faith poems

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Shrine Of The Virgin - Part I

© John Kenyon

"The traveller, who hears that vesper-bell,

Howe'er employed, must send a prayer to heaven

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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Student's Tale; The Falcon of Ser Federigo

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Who is thy mother, my fair boy?" he said,
His hand laid softly on that shining head.
"Monna Giovanna.  Will you let me stay
A little while, and with your falcon play?
We live there, just beyond your garden wall,
In the great house behind the poplars tall."

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"Thou That Know'st for Whom I Mourn"

© Henry Vaughan

THOU that know'st for whom I mourn,

  And why these tears appear,

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The Valley Of Anostan

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

AN Orient legend, which hath all the light
And fragrance of the asphodels of heaven,
Smiles on us from old Ælian's mellowed page;
And thus it runs, smooth as the stream of joy

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To The Summer Night

© Robert Laurence Binyon

A sultry perfume of voluptuous June
Enchants the air still breathing of warm day;
But now the impassioned Night draws over, soon
To fold me, in this high hollow, quite away

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The Angel In The House. Book II. Canto I.

© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore

V Perspective
  What seems to us for us is true.
  The planet has no proper light,
  And yet, when Venus is in view,
  No primal star is half so bright.

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The Third Booke Of Qvodlibets

© Robert Hayman


Kings doe correct those that Rebellious are,
And their good Subjects worthily preferre:
Iust Epigrams reproue those that offend,
And those that vertuous are, she doth commend.

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More Sonnets At Christmas III

© Allen Tate

Nobody said that he could be a plumber,
Carpenter, clerk, bus-driver, bombardier;
Let little boys go into violent slumber,
Aegean squall and squalor where their fear
Is of an enemy in remote oceans
Unstalked by Christ: these are the better notions.

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Christ’s Descent Into Purgatory, By Giorgione, At Venice

© Richard Monckton Milnes

The saving work for man is finishèd,
The kingdoms of the Earth and Air o'erthrown;
So now hath Christ come down among the dead,
Spoiling the Spoiler, to redeem his own.

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Pelleas And Ettarre

© Alfred Tennyson

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors
Were softly sundered, and through these a youth,
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

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Beneath The Snow

© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

’Twas near the close of the dying year,
And December’s winds blew cold and drear,
Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet
In gusty whirls through square and street,
Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still
In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.

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Book Eighth: Retrospect--Love Of Nature Leading To Love Of Man

© William Wordsworth

WHAT sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard

Up to thy summit, through the depth of air

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The First Booke Of Qvodlibets

© Robert Hayman


Though my best lines no dainty things affords,
My worst haue in them some thing else then words.

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Delphi

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Beneath the vintage moon's uncertain light,
And some faint stars that pierced the film of cloud,
Stood those Parnassian peaks before my sight,
Whose fame throughout the ancient world was loud.

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Vacation Time

© Edgar Albert Guest

Vacation time! How glad it seemed

When as a boy I sat and dreamed

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See Where The Thames, The Purest Stream

© William Cowper

See where the Thames, the purest stream
That wavers to the noon-day beam,
Divides the vale below;
While like a vein of liquid ore
His waves enrich the happy shore,
Still shining as they flow.

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The Two Ships

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

On the sea of life they floated,

Brothers twain in manhood's pride,

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Book First [Introduction-Childhood and School Time]

© William Wordsworth

OH there is blessing in this gentle breeze,

A visitant that while it fans my cheek

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Adam: A Sacred Drama. Act 1.

© William Cowper

Adam, arise, since I do thee impart
A spirit warm from my benignant breath:
Arise, arise, first man,
And joyous let the world
Embrace its living miniature in thee!

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Twenty Years

© Francis Bret Harte

Beg your pardon, old fellow!  I think
I was dreaming just now when you spoke.
The fact is, the musical clink
Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink
A chord of my memory woke.