That is the entire poem.http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/Easterwings.html
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee Oh let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine And feel this day thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
That is the entire poem.http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/Easterwings.html
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God made man in His own image
In the image of God He made him.--Genesis Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And markt their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this-- More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- More packt with danger to the universe. For the entire poem click here: http://english.emory.edu/classes/paintings&poems/markham.html http://www.amazon.com/s?_encoding=UTF8&sort=relevancerank&search-alias=books&field-author=Edwin%20Markham Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord, Who was the Future, died full long ago. Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go, Poor, child, and be not to thyself abhorred. Around thine earth sun-winged winds do blow And planets roll; a meteor draws his sword; The rainbow breaks his seven-coloured chord And the long strips of river-silver flow: Awake! Give thyself to the lovely hours. Drinking their lips, catch thou the dream in flight About their fragile hairs' aerial gold. Thou art divine, thou livest,—as of old Apollo springing naked to the light, And all his island shivered into flowers.
That is the entire poem.http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20245 http://www.amazon.com/Trumbull-Stickney/e/B001HPI1H6 What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labor and to wait. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16614 http://www.amazon.com/Henry-Wadsworth-Longfellow-Writings-Library/dp/188301185X Siwashing It Out Once in Suislaw Forest
I slept under rhododendron All night blossoms fell Shivering on a sheet of cardboard Feet stuck in my pack Hands deep in my pockets Barely able to sleep. For the entire poem click here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15435 http://www.amazon.com/Gary-Snyder/e/B000APL9JG in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why,remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if,remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me,remember me That is the entire poem.http://poems.writers-network.com/ee_cummings/in-time-of-daffodils.html http://www.amazon.com/Cummings-Complete-1904-1962-Corrected-Expanded/dp/0871401525 Dumped wet and momentary on a dull ground
that’s been clear but clearly sleeping, for days. Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light making a music in the streets we wish we could keep. Last snow. That’s what we’ll think for weeks to come. Close sun sets up a glare that smarts like a good cry. For the entire poem click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240176 http://www.saltpublishing.com/shop/proddetail.php?prod=1844710602 Leaf carried
left. Brittle-cold grass, where I want to insert first the asphalt, first the rain thawing on the brick. Silence unfolds its loud mutterings. Pierced by a cry. Black bird, yellowed beak. Not pierced, threaded. Bird finds the grain of the still air, slips a voice through and between the layers. First sees the layers. Soon the instant when the falling water is only what falls from branches, edge of gutter, off the leaves. Taps on the hard grass. For the entire poem click here: http://www.theharvardadvocate.com/content/winter-sketch Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
That is the entire poem. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19729 http://www.amazon.com/The-Complete-Poems-Emily-Dickinson/dp/0316184136 I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature’s holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? That is the entire poem. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181415 |
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