BeautyofPoetry.com

RELIGION. Beneath thine eye Will brighten, till the

admin — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 20:18:03 +0000

RELIGION.
Beneath thine eye Will brighten, till the upper sky
Shows not a cloud.
The shroud, When touched by thee is glorified,
And death defied. The grave itself becomes a crystal gate,
Where we shall wait In silent longing, till the bar
Is lifted high ; And then, crowned by the Eastern star,
Enter the sky.

DOING NOTHING When he kissed and left me,

admin — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 23:41:04 +0000

DOING NOTHING
When he kissed and left me, Oh, he looked so brave!
God be with him sleeping In his far-off grave!
What are dress and jewels, What are meat and bread
To a lonely woman Grieving for her dead?
Wan I am with weeping, Tired of heart I sink
Doing nothing . . . only Trying not to think’

THOU KNOWEST NOT. THOU canst not tell how

admin — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 03:05:05 +0000

THOU KNOWEST NOT.
THOU canst not tell how strong and deep
Thy hold on me has grown, The ivy has sent down its roots
To the foundation-stone ; And it will live, when rock and wall
Alike are overthrown.

THE LOVERS’ WALK Oh, how many happy lovers

admin — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:53:07 +0000

THE LOVERS’ WALK
Oh, how many happy lovers Has that gleaming river glassed !
Oh, what folk alight with joy,
Dancing girl, and glowing boy, Youth and Beauty linked together in the dim, sweet past!
Now a frond goes down the current, Now a flower the eddies turn,
But the lovers never sigh
As they watch them drifting by, Nor bethink them of the moments that are like to flower and fern.
Yet a hungry sea is calling, Though a distant sea it be;
And the lovers’ golden hours
Are as drifting ferns and flowers, And a river, not their river, takes them onward to the sea.
Oh. the splendour, and the raptures, And the hours of rose and rhyme !
Oh, the passion-thirst that sips
At the fount of rosy lips ! Oh, the slowly-moving waters of the river like to Time!

THE JOUKNEY OF LIFE. How can a wanderer,

admin — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 11:53:04 +0000

THE JOUKNEY OF LIFE.
How can a wanderer, far astray, Discover where he missed his way, When phantoms mock his straining sight, And all the sky is dark with night !
At early morn, with buoyant heart, They watched him from his home depart. The April sky was calm and bright ; The clouds were touched with rosy light : And, in the shadow of the dawn, The fading moonbeams glimmered wan.

ON SEEING IN A BOOK, J. K., JUN.

admin — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 15:05:04 +0000

ON SEEING IN A BOOK, J. K., JUN.
Yet still fond memory sadly turns to thee With backward glance ; turns to the flowers thou’st wont In spring to scent, the birds thou lov’dst to hear, The sun that cheer’d thee and the gale that fann’d, And rescues from the past its hoarded joys.
They do not die whose memory fills the scenes Living they lov’d : it is not death when all That tells of present pleasure speaks of them ! The gentle flower that yields its sunny life Within some precious volume closely press’ d Dies not, though deem’d to die : its hues may fade, And its soft petals hard become and sere, But all that gave it value lives when form And freshness perish ; and the eye that scans The learned page will gladly pause, and pay Love’s tender tribute to the pledge of love.
And thou, enshrin’d in childrens’ hearts, and wept By widows’ tears, although the coffin hold Thy mortal dust, and pent within a tomb Thy generous bosom beat with love no more Child of a fading race, though sire to us ;

THE HARVEST OF LIFE. The withered leaves, the

admin — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 15:41:08 +0000

THE HARVEST OF LIFE.
The withered leaves, the broken stalk,
The blossoms, dead and dry, Kecall no likeness to themselves
Beneath the Summer sky. And he, who made his harvest such,
Can only mourn in vain ; For never more in life we reap,
When Autumn’s on the wane.

TO MY SOUL. WHEREFORE art thou sad, my

admin — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 19:53:03 +0000

TO MY SOUL.
WHEREFORE art thou sad, my soul, And burdened by thy care ?
This is thy appointed grief, The burden thou must bear.
The narrow pathway to thy God Is margined by the thorn.
The heart is lifted up to Heaven, From a world forlorn.

BEQUEATHAL THE night-birds cry in the bush outside,

admin — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 20:18:04 +0000

BEQUEATHAL
THE night-birds cry in the bush outside, And I write here, though the hour be late ; And what shall I write of the man who died? “He gave his gold to the poor at his gate !”
The line is written. Was that his all, And did that all exhaust his love? “Nay, nay, write on, while the night-birds call : ‘He gave his soul to his God above’ !”
Say on; for in so rich a vein
More gold lay waiting to be proved. ‘ ‘Twas so ! Write this, and write it plain : ‘He gave his heart to the wife he loved’ !”
What more ? “What more dost thou require ?
What more was left to give or take? Yet more there was. Write this in fire :
‘He gave his life for his country’s sake’ !”
“Last gift of all, with courage fine,
Though far from stars that watched his birth. He fell. Write then this final line :
‘He gave his clay to the aliens’ earth’ !”

OH ! THEE OF KNOWLEDGE ! SAD tree

admin — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 23:05:05 +0000

OH ! THEE OF KNOWLEDGE !
SAD tree of knowledge ! from thy bough,
In Summers gone, The golden fruit in beauty hung.
I gazed upon Its sweetness in the night and morn.
My soul was won To touch it by the angel near.
Yet, though to me, It opened holier views of life.
Mine eye must see The radiant gates of Eden closed,
Eternally.