Power poems

 / page 163 of 324 /
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Faith

© Nikola Vaptsarov

Pray, how will you smash it?
With bullets?
No! That is useless!
Stop! It is not worth it!

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Ode VIII: If Rightly Tuneful Bards Decide

© Mark Akenside

I.

If rightly tuneful bards decide,

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Astrophel And Stella-Fourth Song

© Sir Philip Sidney

Only joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care:
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward for sharpest pain.
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
"No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."

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521. Inscription for an Alter of Independence

© Robert Burns

THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d;
Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;

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The Writer's Hand

© David Gascoyne

What is your want, perpetual invalid

Whose fist is always beating on my breast's

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351. Second Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry

© Robert Burns

Critics—appall’d, I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:

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129. The Calf

© Robert Burns

RIGHT, sir! your text I’ll prove it true,
Tho’ heretics may laugh;
For instance, there’s yourself just now,
God knows, an unco calf.

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157. Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods at Edinburgh

© Robert Burns

WHEN, by a generous Public’s kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted—honest fame;
Waen here your favour is the actor’s lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;

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528. Song—On Chloris being ill

© Robert Burns

Chorus—Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow
While my soul’s delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.

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201. Birthday Ode for 31st December, 1787

© Robert Burns

AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams,
Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;
An inmate in the casual shed,
On transient pity’s bounty fed,

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203. Sylvander to Clarinda

© Robert Burns

WHEN dear Clarinda, 1 matchless fair,
First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view,
He gaz’d, he listened to despair,
Alas! ’twas all he dared to do.

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224. Epistle to Hugh Parker

© Robert Burns

IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles:

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99. To a Louse

© Robert Burns

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!

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92. Suppressed Stanzas of “The Vision”

© Robert Burns

The owner of a pleasant spot,
Near and sandy wilds, I last did note; 14
A heart too warm, a pulse too hot
At times, o’erran:
But large in ev’ry feature wrote,
Appear’d the Man.

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Book Fifth-Books

© William Wordsworth

  There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander!--many a time
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,

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The Kingdom Within

© Sri Aurobindo

Wider behind than the vast universe
  Our spirit scans the drama and the stir,
A peace, a light, an ecstasy, a power
Waiting at the end of blindness and the curse
  That veils it from its ignorant minister,
The grandeur of its free eternal hour.

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91. The Vision

© Robert Burns

“And wear thou this”—she solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head:
The polish’d leaves and berries red
Did rustling play;
And, like a passing thought, she fled
In light away. [To Mrs. Stewart of Stair Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]

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Finality

© Charles Harpur

A HEAVY and desolate sense of life
  Is all the Past makes mine—and still
A cold contempt of Fortune’s strife,
  Despite the dread
  Of want of bread,
’Numbs, clogs like ice, my weary will.

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310. Tam o’ Shanter: A Tale

© Robert Burns

This truth fand honest TAM O’ SHANTER,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

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228. To Alex. Cunningham, Esq., Writer, Edinburgh

© Robert Burns

MY godlike friend—nay, do not stare,
You think the phrase is odd-like;
But “God is love,” the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.