Peace poems

/ page 174 of 319 /

Order by :

1
. . .
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
. . .
319

"With sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;—
Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!"

from The Task, Book IV: The Winter Evening

© William Cowper

(excerpt)

Hark! ’tis the twanging horn! o’er yonder bridge,

A Map of the Western Part of the County of Essex in England

© Denise Levertov

Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers

and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,

After the Pleasure Party: Lines Traced Under an Image of Amor Threatening

© Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

Fear me, virgin whosoever
Taking pride from love exempt,
Fear me, slighted. Never, never
Brave me, nor my fury tempt:
Downy wings, but wroth they beat
Tempest even in reason's seat.

Yarrow Visited. September, 1814

© André Breton

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream

Of which my fancy cherished,

I Am the Woman

© Gerard Malanga

I am the Woman, ark of the law and its breaker,
Who chastened her steps and taught her knees to be meek,
Bridled and bitted her heart and humbled her cheek,
Parcelled her will, and cried "Take more!" to the taker,
Shunned what they told her to shun, sought what they bade her seek,
Locked up her mouth from scornful speaking: now it is open to speak.

from A Moral Alphabet

© Hilaire Belloc

MORAL
If you were born to walk the ground,
Remain there; do not fool around.

John Brown: A Paradox

© Louise Imogen Guiney

Compassionate eyes had our brave John Brown,
And a craggy stern forehead, a militant frown;
He, the storm-bow of peace. Give him volley on volley,
The fool who redeemed us once of our folly,
And the smiter that healed us, our right John Brown!

Arise, Go Down

© Li-Young Lee

It wasn’t the bright hems of the Lord’s skirts
that brushed my face and I opened my eyes
to see from a cleft in rock His backside;

from The Seasons: Winter

© James Thomson

Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme!
O teach me what is good! teach me Thyself!
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit; and feed my soul
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure,
Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!

Amoretti LXII: "The weary yeare his race now having run"

© Edmund Spenser

The weary yeare his race now having run,

The new begins his compast course anew:

A Little Called Pauline

© Gertrude Stein

A little called anything shows shudders.
Come and say what prints all day. A whole few watermelon. There is no pope.
No cut in pennies and little dressing and choose wide soles and little spats really little spices.
A little lace makes boils. This is not true.

Poem

© Katha Pollitt

I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be more or less insane,

The Old Meeting House

© Alfred Noyes

(new jersey, 1918)
Its quiet graves were made for peace till Gabriel blows his horn.
Those wise old elms could hear no cry
Of all that distant agony
Only the red-winged blackbird, and the rustle of thick ripe corn.

The Loneliness of the Military Historian

But it’s no use asking me for a final statement.
As I say, I deal in tactics.
Also statistics:
for every year of peace there have been four hundred
years of war.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.