Health poems
/ page 59 of 85 /
The Word
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Voice of the Holy Spirit, making known
Man to himself, a witness swift and sure,
Sonnet to Ocean
© Thomas Hood
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
To Thomas Moore, Esq.
© Frances Anne Kemble
Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
The Stockmen of Australia
© Anonymous
The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear a hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.
HOW many of the body's health complain,
© Jones Very
HOW many of the body's health complain,
When they some deeper malady conceal;
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part III.
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stood
Square shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill,
With All Thy Gifts
© Walt Whitman
WITH all thy gifts, America,
(Standing secure, rapidly tending, overlooking the world,)
The Parsonage Improved
© Henry James Pye
Where gentle Deva's lucid waters glide
In slow meanders thro' the winding vale,
Lines on Revisiting the Country
© William Cullen Bryant
I stand upon my native hills again,
Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky
With garniture of waving grass and grain,
Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie,
While deep the sunless glens are scooped between,
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.
Ode to Evening
© William Taylor Collins
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
What Time the Bugle Blew
© Anonymous
Yes! 'Twas the bugle blew!
The Empire's summons flew;
The Long White Cloud re-echoed loud,
What time the bugle blew!
Sunday Brunch at the Old Country Buffet by Anne Caston: American Life in Poetry #45 Ted Kooser, U.S.
© Ted Kooser
Poets are experts at holding mirrors to the world. Here Anne Caston, from Alaska, shows us a commonplace scene. HavenÃt we all been in this restaurant for the Sunday buffet? Caston overlays the picture with language that, too, is ordinary, even sloganistic, and overworn. But by zooming in on the joint of meat and the belly-up fishes floating in
butter, she compels us to look more deeply into what is before us, and a room that at first seemed humdrum becomes rich with inference.
A Ballad Of The Town Water
© Robert Fuller Murray
It is the Police Commissioners,
All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
Have set themselves away.
The Prisoners Of Naples
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound
In Naples, dying for the lack of air
And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,
Where hope is not, and innocence in vain
Sir Eustace Grey
© George Crabbe
And shall I then the fact deny?
I was--thou know'st--I was begone,
Like him who fill'd the eastern throne,
To whom the Watcher cried aloud;
That royal wretch of Babylon,
Who was so guilty and so proud.
