Freedom poems

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The Fishing Outfit

© Edgar Albert Guest

You may talk of stylish raiment,

You may boast your broadcloth fine,

Ill have to change my mind on war, I need to take a break
from structured thought; theres more to peace - it dictates
a longer oar to keep the calm than takes to make a little war.
Our history as a people is a theatre of strife and where

Forsaken promises

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Nothing came to claim my muse, instead I dreamed
of freedoms neatly folded in a treasure chest lying in the debris
of a crater; the best were simple choices, the rest forsaken
promises bombed to shreds beside their makers.

Faustus And Helen

© Arthur Symons

HELEN
Have I slept long? You waken me from sleep.
I have forgotten something: what is it?

The True Man

© Edgar Albert Guest

This is the sort of a man was he:
True when it hurt him a lot to be;
Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lie
Would have helped him out, but he wouldn't buy
His freedom there in so cheap a way--
He told the truth though he had to pay.

St. Peter and the Angel

© Denise Levertov

Delivered out of raw continual pain,
smell of darkness, groans of those others
to whom he was chained--

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

The Bastille: A Vision

© Helen Maria Williams

"Drear cell! along whose lonely bounds,
Unvisited by light,
Chill silence dwells with night,
Save where the clanging fetter sounds!

Ode: How Sleep the Brave

© William Taylor Collins

How sleep the brave who sink to rest

By all their countrys wishes blest!

The House Of Dust: Part 04: 03: Palimpsest: A Deceitful Portrait

© Conrad Aiken

Or 'one day dies eventless as another,
Leaving the seeker still unsatisfied,
And more convinced life yields no satisfaction'?
Or 'seek too hard, the sight at length grows callous,
And beauty shines in vain'?

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter

© Conrad Aiken

From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,
And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly.

On The Wreck Of The Halsewell

© Henry James Pye

A FRAGMENT.

What the Birds Said

The birds against the April wind
Flew northward, singing as they flew;
They sang, "The land we leave behind
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew."

The Barefoot Boy

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;

Stanzas for the Times

Is this the land our fathers loved,
The freedom which they toiled to win?
Is this the soil whereon they moved?
Are these the graves they slumber in?
Are we the sons by whom are borne
The mantles which the dead have worn?

To Mr. Rowland Woodward

© John Donne

LIKE one who in her third widowhood doth profess
Herself a nun, tied to retiredness,
So affects my Muse, now, a chaste fallowness.

Snowbound, a Winter Idyl

To the Memory of the Household It DescribesThis Poem is Dedicated by the Author"As the Spirit of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our fire of Wood doth the same."
Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I, ch. v.
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,