Hope poems
/ page 129 of 439 /
Agamemnons Tomb
© Emma Lazarus
Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,
And let the sun shine on him as it did
The Childless Woman
© Harriet Monroe
O Mother of that heap of clay, so passive on your breast,
Now do you stare at death, woman, who yesterday were blest?
The Ring And The Book - Chapter X - The Pope
© Robert Browning
Then Stephen, Pope and seventh of the name,
Cried out, in synod as he sat in state,
While choler quivered on his brow and beard,
Come into court, Formosus, thou lost wretch,
That claimedst to be late the Pope as I!
Hearts Encouragement
© Madison Julius Cawein
Nor time nor all his minions
Of sorrow or of pain,
Shall dash with vulture pinions
The cup she fills again
Within the dream-dominions
Of life where she doth reign.
My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!
© Caroline Norton
MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
Of Judgement
© John Bunyan
As 'tis appointed men should die,
So judgment is the next
That meets them most assuredly;
For so saith holy text.
Epipsychidion: Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
To the oblivion whither I and thou,
All loving and all lovely, hasten now
With steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet
In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!
The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11
© Publius Vergilius Maro
SCARCE had the rosy Morning raisd her head
Above the waves, and left her watry bed;
My Psalm
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I mourn no more my vanished years
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.
The Workhouse Clock
© Thomas Hood
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on
If Only I Were Santa Claus
© Edgar Albert Guest
If only I were Santa Claus and you were still a boy,
I'd find the chimney to your heart and fill it full of joy ;
"The Undying One" - Canto I
© Caroline Norton
"My parch'd lips strove for utterance--but no,
I could but listen still, with speechless woe:
I stretch'd my quivering arms--'Away! away!'
She cried, 'and let me humbly kneel, and pray
For pardon; if, indeed, such pardon be
For having dared to love--a thing like thee!'
A Road Song
© Madison Julius Cawein
It's-Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one
With a vagabond foot that follows!
