God poems

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194

A Dream Of Sunshine

© Eugene Field

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways

Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--

Phaedra

© Edith Wharton

NOT that on me the Cyprian fury fell,

Last martyr of my love-ensanguined race;

I am to tell you, you say, what I think of our last new acquaintance.
Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to be jealous.
I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being with him.
He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, and
Certainly seems so to me; but I think he is terribly selfish.

The Power Of Words Oinos.

© Edgar Allan Poe

You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be
demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition.
For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given!

Reality

© Emma Lazarus

These things alone endure;
"They are the solid facts," that we may grasp,
Leading us on and upward if we clasp
And hold them firm and sure.

Custer: Book Third

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Were every red man slaughtered in a day,
Still would that sacrifice but poorly pay
For one insulted woman captive's woes.

The Death Of The Poor

© Charles Baudelaire

It is Death, alas, persuades us to keep on living:
the goal of life and the only hope we have,
like an elixir, rousing, intoxicating, giving
the strength to march on towards the grave:

Elijah

© Henry Kendall

INTO that good old Hebrews soul sublime

The spirit of the wilderness had passed;

The Visit Of The Gods. Imitated From Schiller

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone:
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,

Ecologue I

© Virgil

Tityrus.
Sooner shall light stags, therefore, feed in air,
The seas their fish leave naked on the strand,
Germans and Parthians shift their natural bounds,
And these the Arar, those the Tigris drink,
Than from my heart his face and memory fade.

Myrto

© Gerard de Nerval

It is of you, divine enchantress, I am thinking, Myrto,
Burning with a thousand fires at haughty Posilipo,
Of your forehead flowing with an Oriental glare,
Of the black grapes mixed with the gold of your hair.

Chorus of Athenians

Strophe I.

Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

Metamorphoses: Book The Fifth

© Ovid

The End of the Fifth 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

The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 11

Thanne Scriptare scorned me and a skile tolde,
And lakked me in Latyn and light by me sette,
And seide, " Multi multa sciunt et seipsos nesciunt.'
Tho wepte I for wo andwrathe of hir speche
And in a wynkynge w[o]rth til I [weex] aslepe.

The Dunciad: Book IV

She mounts the throne: her head a cloud conceal'd,
In broad effulgence all below reveal'd;
('Tis thus aspiring Dulness ever shines)
Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines.