Truth poems
/ page 52 of 257 /
Astraea: The Balance Of Illusions
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
Dear to his age were memories such as these,
Leaves of his June in life's autumnal breeze;
Such were the tales that won my boyish ear,
Told in low tones that evening loves to hear.
Sonnet V
© George Santayana
Even such a dream I dream, and know full well
My waking passes like a midnight spell,
But know not if my dreaming could break through
Into the deeps of heaven and of hell.
I know but this of all I would I knew:
Truth is a dream, unless my dream is true.
The Moral Warfare
© John Greenleaf Whittier
WHEN Freedom, on her natal day,
Within her war-rocked cradle lay,
An iron race around her stood,
Baptized her infant brow in blood;
Written For A Gentlewoman In Distress, To Her Grace Adelida, Dutchess Of Shrewsbury.
© Mary Barber
Might I inquire the Reasons of my Fate,
Or with my Maker dare expostulate;
Did I, in prosp'rous Days, despise the Poor,
Or drive the friendless Stranger from my Door?
Twin-Born
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
He who possesses virtue at its best,
Or greatness in the true sense of the word,
Has one day started even with that herd
Whose swift feet now speed but at sin's behest.
Two Poems To Harriet Beecher Stowe
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
ON HER SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JUNE 14, 1882
On A Landscape Bt Rubens
© William Lisle Bowles
Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full,
Upon the rich creation, shadowed so
A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - December
© George MacDonald
1.
I AM a little weary of my life-
The Empty Purse--A Sermon To Our Later Prodigal Son
© George Meredith
Thy knowledge of women might be surpassed:
As any sad dog's of sweet flesh when he quits
The wayside wandering bone!
No revilings of comrades as ingrates: thee
The tempter, misleader, and criminal (screened
By laws yet barbarous) own.
France
© Rudyard Kipling
Broke to every known mischance, lifted over all
By the light sane joy of life, the buckler of the Gaul,
Furious in luxury, merciless in toil,
Terrible with strength that draws from her tireless soil;
A Vision Of The Argonauts
© Richard Monckton Milnes
It is a privilege of great price to walk
With that old sorcerer Fable, hand in hand,
Adown the shadowy vale of History:
There is no other wand potent as his,
The Adirondacs
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
Wise and polite,--and if I drew
Their several portraits, you would own
Chaucer had no such worthy crew,
Nor Boccace in Decameron.
The Pilgrim Fathers
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
The Ancient Banner
© Anonymous
In boundless mercy, the Redeemer left,
The bosom of his Father, and assumed
Independence
© Charles Churchill
Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)
Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;
The Loafers' Club
© Anonymous
A club there is established here, whose name they say is Legion;
From Melbourne to the Billabong they're known in every region.
They do not like the cockatoos, but mostly stick to stations,
Where they keep themselves from starving by cadging shepherd's rations.
California's Greeting To Seward
© Francis Bret Harte
We know him well: no need of praise
Or bonfire from the windy hill
To light to softer paths and ways
The world-worn man we honor still.
