Fear poems
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The Philanthropic Society
© William Lisle Bowles
INSCRIBED TO THE DUKE OF LEEDS.
When Want, with wasted mien and haggard eye,
Fragment X
© James Macpherson
It is night; and I am alone, forlorn
on the hill of storms. The wind is
heard in the mountain. The torrent
shrieks down the rock. No hut receives
me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of
winds.
Where The Mind Is Without Fear
© Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
The Retreat.
© Robert Crawford
Against my lonely latter years
I'll build a faery home for me
Proof against sorrow with its fears,
And age with its adversity.
The Farmer's Boy - Autumn
© Robert Bloomfield
Again, the year's _decline_, midst storms and floods,
The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods,
Invite my song; that fain would boldly tell
Of upland coverts, and the echoing dell,
By turns resounding loud, at eve and morn
The swineherd's halloo, or the huntsman's horn.
To Cruel Ocean
© Victor Marie Hugo
Where are the hapless shipmen?--disappeared,
Gone down, where witness none, save Night, hath been,
William and Helen
© Sir Walter Scott
I.
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose,
And eyed the dawning red:
"Alas, my love, thou tarriest long!
O art thou false or dead?"-
Of Heaven
© John Bunyan
Heaven is a place, also a state,
It doth all things excel,
No man can fully it relate,
Nor of its glory tell.
Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh
© Ovid
The End of the Seventh 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
Coombe-Ellen
© William Lisle Bowles
Call the strange spirit that abides unseen
In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes,
Zyps Of Zirl
© Madison Julius Cawein
The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,
Where, foaming under the mountain spines,
The Inn's long water sounds and shines.
Hymn, Sung At Christmas By The Scholars Of St. Helenas Island, S.C.
© John Greenleaf Whittier
OH, none in all the world before
Were ever glad as we!
1946-47
© Jibanananda Das
Thousands of Bengali villages, silent and powerless, sink into
hopelessness and lightlessness.
When the sun sets, a certain lovely haired darkness
Comes to fix her hair in-a bun-but by whose hands?
The Brothers
© Richard Monckton Milnes
'Tis true, that we can sometimes speak of Death,
Even of the Deaths of those we love the best,
Without dismay or terror; we can sit
In serious calm beneath deciduous trees,
The Trial
© Nizar Qabbani
The East receives my songs, some praise, some curse
To each of them my gratitude I bear
For I've avenged the blood of each slain woman
and haven offered her who is in fear.
To Samuel E. Sewall And Harriet W. Sewall Of Melrose
© John Greenleaf Whittier
OLOR ISCANUS queries: "Why should we
Vex at the land's ridiculous miserie?"
So on his Usk banks, in the blood-red dawn
Of England's civil strife, did careless Vaughan
My Son the Man by Sharon Olds: American Life in Poetry #70 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
As a man I'll never gain the wisdom Sharon Olds expresses in this poem about motherhood, but one of the reasons poetry is essential is that it can take us so far into someone else's experience that we feel it's our own.
My Son the Man
