Truth poems
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Prometheus Unbound
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
First Voice.
But never bowed our snowy crest
As at the voice of thine unrest.
One Day And Another: A Lyrical Eclogue Part IV
© Madison Julius Cawein
_They who die young are blest.--
Should we not envy such?
They are Earth's happiest,
God-loved and favored much!--
They who die young are blest._
Sonnet 147: "My love is as a fever longing still,..."
© William Shakespeare
My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Paradise Regain'd : Book II.
© John Milton
Meanwhile the new-baptized, who yet remained
At Jordan with the Baptist, and had seen
Brown Of Ossawatomie
© John Greenleaf Whittier
John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:
"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.
But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
Don Juan: Canto The Fifteenth
© George Gordon Byron
Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
The Beggar's Valentine
© Vachel Lindsay
Kiss me and comfort my heart
Maiden honest and fine.
I am the pilgrim boy
Lame, but hunting the shrine;
To the United States Senate
© Vachel Lindsay
And must the Senator from Illinois
Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes?
This brazen gutter idol, reared to power
Upon a leering pyramid of lies?
What Are Heavy? Sea-Sand And Sorrow
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
What are heavy? Sea-sand and sorrow:
What are brief? To-day and to-morrow:
What are frail? Spring blossoms and youth:
What are deep? The ocean and truth.
In Memory Of John Greenleaf Whittier
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
December 17, l807 - September 7, 1892
THOU, too, hast left us. While with heads bowed low,
And sorrowing hearts, we mourned our summer's dead,
The flying season bent its Parthian bow,
And yet again our mingling tears were shed.
The Alchemist's Petition
© Vachel Lindsay
Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life
My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep
Like a white statue dropped into the deep,
Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold,
And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold.
How I Walked Alone in the Jungles of Heaven
© Vachel Lindsay
Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all alone
Upon the sacred cliffs above the sky.
God and the angels, and the gleaming saints
Had journeyed out into the stars to die.
The Crisis
© John Greenleaf Whittier
ACROSS the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,
The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;
From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free,
Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;
Incense
© Vachel Lindsay
Think not that incense-smoke has had its day.
My friends, the incense-time has but begun.
Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,
Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun.
The Wizard in the Street
© Vachel Lindsay
I love him in this blatant, well-fed place.
Of all the faces, his the only face
Beautiful, tho' painted for the stage,
Lit up with song, then torn with cold, small rage,
Shames that are living, loves and hopes long dead,
Consuming pride, and hunger, real, for bread.
Tears At The Grave Of Sir Albertus Morton (Who Was Buried At Southampton) Wept By Sir H. Wotton.
© Sir Henry Wotton
Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel.
On the Road to Nowhere
© Vachel Lindsay
On the road to nowhere
What wild oats did you sow
When you left your father's house
With your cheeks aglow?
The Santa-Fe Trail (A Humoresque)
© Vachel Lindsay
This is the order of the music of the morning:
First, from the far East comes but a crooning.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
Hark to the calm -horn, balm -horn, psalm -horn.
Hark to the faint -horn, quaint -horn, saint -horn. . . .
