Life poems
/ page 189 of 844 /
After The Storm
© Boris Pasternak
The air is full of after-thunder freshness,
And everything rejoices and revives.
With the whole outburst of its purple clusters
The lilac drinks the air of paradise.
At The Age Of 35
© John Le Gay Brereton
Gone are the aching want, the unceasing fret,
Mad flight and moaning over battered wings,
Genesis BK XIX
© Caedmon
(ll. 1217-1224) Then Methuselah held sway among his kinsmen, and
longest of all men enjoyed the pleasures of this world. He begat
a multitude of sons and daughters before his death. And all the
years of Methuselah were nine hundred and seventy winters, and he
died.
Scenes Of The Mind
© Aldous Huxley
I have run where festival was loud
With drum and brass among the crowd
Viva Perpetua
© Archibald Lampman
The night is passing. In a few short hours
I too shall suffer for the name of Christ.
A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!
I know that they who left us, Saturus,
Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,
Await me at the opening gates of heaven.
Charles Sumner. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Garlands upon his grave
And flowers upon his hearse,
And to the tender heart and brave
The tribute of this verse.
The Missionary - Canto Fifth
© William Lisle Bowles
Three years have passed since a fond husband left
Me and this infant, of his love bereft;
Him I have followed; need I tell thee more,
Cast helpless, friendless, hopeless, on this shore.
The Approach Of Christmas
© Edgar Albert Guest
There's a little chap at our house that is being mighty good--
Keeps the front lawn looking tidy in the way we've said he should;
Doesn't leave his little wagon, when he's finished with his play,
On the sidewalk as he used to; now he puts it right away.
When we call him in to supper, we don't have to stand and shout;
It is getting on to Christmas and it's plain he's found it out.
The Ghost-Seer
© James Russell Lowell
Ye who, passing graves by night,
Glance not to the left or right,
Here will I take my rest
© Shams al-Din Hafiz
My lady, that did change this house of mine
Into a heaven when that she dwelt therein,
From head to foot an angel's grace divine
Enwrapped her; pure she was, spotless of sin;
To Alexander Pope, Esq.
© Mary Barber
Accept, illustrious Shade! these artless Lays;
My Soul this Homage, to thy Virtue pays:
Led by that sacred Light, a Stranger--Muse
Attempts those Paths, which abler Feet refuse;
In distant Climes thy Virtue she admires,
In distant Climes thy Worth her Strain inspires.
Hymns to the Night : 1
© Novalis
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light - with its colors, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood - the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it - but more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. - Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the world.
Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world - sunk in a deep grave - waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. - The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?
Two-An'-Six
© Claude McKay
Merry voices chatterin',
Nimble feet dem patterin',
Big an' little, faces gay,
Happy day dis market day.
Epitaph
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
These are two friends whose lives were undivided;
So let their memory be, now they have glided
Under the grave; let not their bones be parted,
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
Holy Cussing by Robert Morgan: American Life in Poetry #47 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
The poet, novelist and biographer, Robert Morgan, who was raised in North Carolina, has written many intriguing poems that teach his readers about southern folklore. Here's just one example.
Holy Cussing
"As Psyche-Life goes down to the shades"
© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
As Psyche-Life goes down to the shades
In a translucent forest in Persephone's tracks,
A blind swallow falls at her feet
With Stygian tenderness and a green branch.
Christ at Carnival
© Muriel Stuart
Then I heard human accents answering:
"I am a god, made god by all thy prayers;
Wach stone becomes a god by worshipping;
I am a man who loves thee: in thy town
Many have loved thee, I am one of these."
