Peace poems

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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 11: Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares

© Conrad Aiken

Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares
With purple lights in the canyoned street.
The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .
The trodden grass in the park is covered with white,
The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . .
The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night.

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The House Of Dust: Complete (Long)

© Conrad Aiken

. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.

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Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations

© Conrad Aiken

Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.

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The Deserted Palace

© Robert Laurence Binyon

``My feet are dead, the cold rain beats my face!''
``Courage, sweet love, this tempest is our friend!''
``Yet oh, shall we not rest a little space?
This city sleeps; some corner may defend

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Sonnet. "I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face"

© Frances Anne Kemble

I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face,

  Which thrusts itself between the dark and me,

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Dirge OF Nelson

© William Lisle Bowles

Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more brave
  Ne'er triumphed on the green-sea wave!
  Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave,
  Toll Nelson's knell!

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The Stranger

© John Clare

When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?
  No, rather smile away despair;
For those have been more sad than I,
  With burthens more than I could bear;
Aye, gone rejoicing under care
Where I had sunk in black despair.

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Sutherland’s Grave

© Henry Kendall

ALL NIGHT long the sea out yonder—all night long the wailful sea,

Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly!

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The Brewing Of Soma

© John Greenleaf Whittier

The fagots blazed, the caldron's smoke
Up through the green wood curled;
"Bring honey from the hollow oak,
Bring milky sap," the brewers spoke,
In the childhood of the world.

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A New Year's Song

© Edgar Albert Guest

Love and laughter lead you

Down the pathways of the year,

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Solitude at an Inn

© Thomas Warton

Oft upon the twilight plain,
Circled with thy shadowy train,
While the dove at distance coo'd,
Have I met thee, Solitude!

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What the Birds Said

© John Greenleaf Whittier

The birds against the April wind
Flew northward, singing as they flew;
They sang, "The land we leave behind
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew."

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Vesta

© John Greenleaf Whittier

O CHRIST of God! whose life and death
Our own have reconciled,
Most quietly, most tenderly
Take home thy star-named child!

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No Place To Go

© Edgar Albert Guest

The happiest nights

  I ever know

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The Changeling ( From The Tent on the Beach )

© John Greenleaf Whittier

FOR the fairest maid in Hampton
They needed not to search,
Who saw young Anna favor
Come walking into church,--

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Snowbound, a Winter Idyl

© John Greenleaf Whittier

To the Memory of the Household It DescribesThis Poem is Dedicated by the Author"As the Spirit of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of Light, are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our fire of Wood doth the same."
Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I, ch. v.
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

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To A Buddha Seated On A Lotus

© Sarojini Naidu

LORD BUDDHA, on thy Lotus-throne,
With praying eyes and hands elate,
What mystic rapture dost thou own,
Immutable and ultimate?
What peace, unravished of our ken,
Annihilate from the world of men?

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The Soudanese

© William Watson

They wrong'd not us, nor sought 'gainst us to wage

The bitter battle. On their God they cried

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Disarmament

© John Greenleaf Whittier

"Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar,
O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
And left dry ashes; over trenches heaped

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Burning Drift-Wood

© John Greenleaf Whittier

Before my drift-wood fire I sit,
And see, with every waif I burn,
Old dreams and fancies coloring it,
And folly's unlaid ghosts return.