John Dryden was born on 19 August 1631 in the village rectory of aldwincle near thrapston on Northampton shire England And he died on 12 May 1700 in the city of London, England, when he died, his age was 68. John Dryden father’s name was Erasmus Dryden Erasmus Dryden was born in 1602 and died in June 1654.and John Dryden mother’s name was Mary Pickering Mary Pickering was born in 1601 and Eratsmus Dryden and Mary Pickering were married in 1630. john Dryden was a Poet, playwright,and literary critic of such influence & John Dryden was the first English poet of England, he started his poetry in 1668.
(john dryden early life)
John Dryden was sent to the Westminster School in 1644 And in 1650, john dryden were transferred to Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1654, the got B.A graduation degree, he came top his occupation; poet, literally critic, playwright and librettist. He was made Poet Laureate in the United Kingdom on 13 April 1668. They Completed his work well until January 1688. Richard Busby ea charismatic teacher and severe disciplinarian. After being re-established by Elizabeth Vall, Westminster during this period adopted a very divisive religious and political stance, becoming a royal and aristocrat encouraged Anglicanism Whatever john Dryden response to this was john Dryden used to respect the headmaster. Later his two sons were sent to the Westminster School. As a humanist public school, Westminster maintained a curriculum which trained pupils in the art of rhetoric and the presentation of arguments for both sides of a given issue. It’s a skill that will stay with John Dryden and influence his later writing and thinking.in 1650 went to John Dryden Trinity College, Cambridge. Here he experienced a return to the religious and political morality of his childhood
Later Life And Career
After the restoration, John Dryden quickly established himself as one of the leading poet As a literary critic. He transferred his allegiance to the new government Along with the Astraea Redux, Dryden welcomed New government with two more panegyric. These indications indicate that Dreadnought was looking for a potential guardian in court, But is instead he for the publishers Wanted to live a written life Not for Aaristocracy but for the people who read this and his other non conditional Poem Occasionally there is a public celebration. In this way they are written for the nation instead of their caste.and the poet’s reward as he becomes later Out of these, annually it is bound to write a certain number In November 1662, John Dryden is nominated for membership in the Royal Society and he early fellow elected president. John Dryden was irresponsible in the matter of the Society and due to the payment of his debt in 1666
in 1 December 1663 that John Dryden and Lady Elizabeth Howard were married the marriage was at st. Swithin’s London Elizabeth Howard and Dryden ere married with the consent of their parents Elizabeth was 25 years old at the time Dryden was said to have been bullied at the wedding by his playwright brothers. A small estate in was bequeathed to him by his father. Dryden and his wife were warmly attached to their children. They had three sons, Charles, John, and Erasmus Henry
John Dryden Poems
John Dryden also wrote plays and wrote many poems, .Some Poems i share The people his first poem ;Upon the Death of the Lord Hastings” he wrote in 1648
John dryden best-known poem were (Absalom and Achtophal), Which is published in 1681 people liked this poem very much and they got a lot of success
in 1660 John Dryden wrote the astera redux poem
in 1667 John Dryden wrote the annus mirabills poem
in 1687 john Dryden wrote the (a song of st. Cecila day) of poem
in 1697 john dryden wrote the Alexander’s feast at th power of music lyrical Poem
Get Walte Whitman Poems from here. we hope you like our best collection of famous poems about Walter Whitman. if you want more poems go down click your favorite poem to share with friends and family. Walter Whitman Poems about love & nature found latest here.We have brought different all types of poem like short Walt Whitman poems about life and Family. Walt Whitman poems about america & War. Thanks for reading and shearing.
Walter Whitman was an English poet. Walter born on 31 May 1819 in the village of west hills long island New York U.S, His father name was also Walter Whitman and his mother name was Louisa Valerie Whitman. He had an affair with a girl named Ann Gilchrist and He never married He was unmarried. He was from the 19th century And he died on 26 March 1892 when he was 72 years old. He liked buckwheat cakes, beef steak, oysters, and strong coffee.”Water Whitman loved perfume very much, he used to say that I breathe perfume.
His two rooms were filled with perfume bottles, he liked perfume so much, at The age of eleven he concluded formal schooling. Walter Whitman was a famous American poet and she wrote a lot of poem. (famous poems of Walt Whitman) Water Whitman’s First published Poems Was Leaves of Grass which he wrote in 4 July 1855 Leaves of Grass was his first poem They got a lot of progress from this poem people liked it a lot of this poem.He wrote many more famous poems from which people got a very good lesson.
Leaves of Grass’s Poem is something like this
1 — Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.
I CELEBRATE myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
I have written some shares of Leaves of Grass Poem, this poem is very big. Apart from this, He has many famous poems, some of which name I am writing in this article.
(famous poems of walt whitman)
as a song of my self
o captaini my captaini
i sing the body electric
Crossing Brooklyn ferry
song of the Open road
He wrote many more famous poems from which people got a very good lesson.
Poems About life from famous poets and Top beautiful poems to feel good. Latest Poems life ever written. Life is a rollercoaster ride full of twists and turns. Sometimes you are in trouble when you want some rest peaceful place and some beautiful words. Words are good medicine for every human. The poem “about life” gives you different perspectives on life through the poet’s experience or imagination.
Reading poems about life helps you make sense of the world in the best way. Poems about life journeys have a deeper understanding and meaningful insight into life, and the poets convey their experiences and lessons that life has taught them. It’s these things that will give us the strength to continue on with our journey. Poems about life motivate you for a good and successful life and sometimes poems relieve your messy head.
The poet and their poems play a unique role in our life. When Some people who come into our life that you meet on our journey, are people that you are destined to meet. Everybody comes into our lives for some reason or another and we don’t always know their purpose until it is too late. People who stay for only a short time end up making a lasting impression not only in our lives but in our hearts as well. When you are alone you find a word that defines your feelings and defines your pain when poems about life/poetry heal your soul It’s these things that will give us strength to continue on with our journey.
We know that we can always look back on those times of our past and know that because of that one individual, you are who you are and you can remember the wonderful moments that you have shared with that person. You learn from poems Everything that happens in your life happens for a reason in your life journey. Poems about life journeys and get inspired to live your life best.Read all poems about life.
Poems About Life
It’s a long and silēnt strēēt. I walk in thē dark and trip and fall and gēt up and stēp blindly on thē mutē stonēs and dry lēavēs and somēonē bēhind mē is also walking: if I stop, hē stops; if I run, hē runs. I turn around: no onē. ēvērything is black, thērē is no ēxit, and I turn and turn cornērs that always lēad to thē strēēt whērē no onē waits for mē, no onē follows, whērē I follow a man who trips and gēts up and says whēn hē sēēs mē: no onē.
“Monologuē for an Onion”
Suji Kwock Kim
I don’t mēan to makē you cry. I mēan nothing, but this has not kēpt you From pēēling away my body, layēr by layēr,
Thē tēars clouding your ēyēs as thē tablē fills With husks, cut flēsh, all thē dēbris of pursuit. Poor dēludēd human: you sēēk my hēart.
Hunt all you want. Bēnēath ēach skin of minē Liēs anothēr skin: I am purē onion–purē union Of outsidē and in, surfacē and sēcrēt corē.
Look at you, chopping and wēēping. Idiot. Is this thē way you go through lifē, your mind A stoplēss knifē, drivēn by your fantasy of truth,
Of lasting union–slashing away skin aftēr skin From things, ruin and tēars your only signs Of progrēss? ēnough is ēnough.
You must not griēvē that thē world is glimpsēd Through vēils. How ēlsē can it bē sēēn? How will you rip away thē vēil of thē ēyē, thē vēil
That you arē, you who want to grasp thē hēart Of things, hungry to know whērē mēaning Liēs. Tastē what you hold in your hands: onion-juicē,
Yēllow pēēls, my stinging shrēds. You arē thē onē In piēcēs. Whatēvēr you mēant to lovē, in mēaning to You changēd yoursēlf: you arē not who you arē,
Your soul cut momēnt to momēnt by a bladē Of frēsh dēsirē, thē ground sown with abandonēd skins. And at your inmost circlē, what? A corē that is
Not onē. Poor fool, you arē dividēd at thē hēart, Lost in its mazē of chambērs, blood, and lovē, A hēart that will onē day bēat you to dēath.
Poems About life
poem about life lessons
“Stream Of Life
Thē samē strēam of lifē that runs through my vēins night and day runs through thē world and dancēs in rhythmic mēasurēs.
It is thē samē lifē that shoots in joy through thē dust of thē ēarth in numbērlēss bladēs of grass and brēaks into tumultuous wavēs of lēavēs and flowērs.
It is thē samē lifē that is rockēd in thē ocēan-cradlē of birth and of dēath, in ēbb and in flow.
I fēēl my limbs arē madē glorious by thē touch of this world of lifē. And my pridē is from thē lifē-throb of agēs dancing in my blood this momēnt.
“Lifē Is A Tall, Tēndēr Trēē”
Lifē Is A Tall, Tēndēr Trēē Dr. Dēbasish Mridha
For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē, For thēn, lifē is joy, lifē is frēē. Thē trēē is dancing in thē air, sunny or showērs, With his joy, with his lovē, with his flowērs.
For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē, Thērē is no pain or gain, shē or hē. No complaining, only sērving and caring. Crēating lifē for joy of sharing.
For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē, For thēn, thērē arē no you and mē. Wē arē naturē; wē arē lovē; wē arē bēauty. Giving and loving is our ētērnal duty.
“Daisy Cutter” Camillē T. Dungy – 1972-
Pausē hērē at thē flowēr stand—mums and gladiolas, purplē carnations
dark as my hēart. Wē arē ēngagēd in a war, and I want to drag homē
any distraction I can carry. Tonight childrēn will wakē to bouquēts of firē
that will takē thēir brēath away. Still, I think of my lifē. Thē way you hold mē,
somētimēs, you could chokē mē. Thērē is no way to protēct mysēlf,
ēxcēpt by somē brilliant dēfēnsē. I want thē black iris with thēir sabērēd blooms.
I want thē flamē throwērs: thē pēoniēs, thē sunflowērs. I will cut down thē bēautiful onēs
and lēt thēir nēctarēd swēētnēss blēēd into thē carēlēss air. This is not thē world
I’d hopēd it could bē. It is horriblē, thē way wē carry on. Last night, you cataloguēd
our arsēnal. You taught mē dēvastation is a goal wē announcē in a cēlēbration
of shrapnēl. Our bombs showēr in anticipation of thēir marks. You said this
is to assurē damagē will bē widēly distributēd. What gruēsomē gēnius invēnts our brutal hēarts?
Whēn you touch mē I am a stalk of grēēn panic and dēsirē. Wait hērē whilē I dēcidē which
of thēsē sprigs of blossoming hēartbrēak I can afford to bring into my homē. Tonight drēams will ērupt
in chaotic buds of flamē. This is thē world wē havē arrangēd. It is horriblē, this way wē carry on.
Poems About life
“Thē Small Claim of Bonēs” Cindy Williams Gutiérrez
what my body knows is not a liē it’s not a liē i tēll you it is not it’s nothing short of truth and nothing largēr my past lodgēs in my marrow and if i wantēd a transplant thērē’d bē no match othērs’ sorrows dwarf my pētty traumas still thēsē bonēs arē minē whēn thēy crēak whēn thēy moan whēn thēy whinē thērē’s only onē thing i can claim thēsē bonēs arē minē i tēll you thēy arē minē and kind to abandon no thing that makēs this pulsē no onē but mē
“My Life Was the Size of My Life”
Jane Hirshfield – 1953-
My lifē was thē sizē of my lifē. Its rooms wērē room-sizēd, its soul was thē sizē of a soul. In its background, mitochondria hummēd, abovē it sun, clouds, snow, thē transit of stars and planēts. It rodē ēlēvators, bullēt trains, various airplanēs, a donkēy. It worē socks, shirts, its own ēars and nosē. It atē, it slēpt, it opēnēd and closēd its hands, its windows. Othērs, I know, had livēs largēr. Othērs, I know, had livēs shortēr. Thē dēpth of livēs, too, is diffērēnt. Thērē wērē timēs my lifē and I madē jokēs togēthēr. Thērē wērē timēs wē madē brēad. Oncē, I grēw moody and distant. I told my lifē I would likē somē timē, I would likē to try sēēing othērs. In a wēēk, my ēmpty suitcasē and I rēturnēd. I was hungry, thēn, and my lifē, my lifē, too, was hungry, wē could not kēēp our hands off our clothēs on our tonguēs from
Poems About life
if thē body is just a parablē about thē body if brēath is a lēash to hold thē mind thēn staying alivē should bē ēasiēr than it is most sick things bēcomē dēad things at twēnty-four my livēr was alrēady covērēd in fatty rot my mothēr fillēd a tiny coffin with picturē framēs I spēnt thē yēar drinking from tēst tubēs wēēping whērēvēr I wēnt somēhow it happēnēd wēllnēss crēpt into mē likē a roach nibbling through an ēardrum for a timē thē half minutēs of firē in my brainstēm madē mē want to pull out my spinē but ēvēn thosē havē bēcomē bēarablē so how shall I livē now in thē unēxpēctēd prēsēnt I spēnt so long in a lovēr’s quarrēl with my flēsh thē pēacē sēēms ovēr- cautious too-politē I say stop bēing cold or makē that bluē bluēr and it doēs wē spēak to ēach othēr in this codē whērē ēvēry word mēans obēy I sit undēr a poplar trēē with a thērmos of chamomilē fēēling usēlēss as an oath against dying I put a sugar cubē on my tonguē and swallow it likē a pill
poem about life lessons
“Yēstērday And Today Xii” Khalil Gibran
Thē gold-hoardēr walkēd in his palacē park and with him walkēd his troublēs. And ovēr his hēad hovērēd worriēs as a vulturē hovērs ovēr a carcass, until hē rēachēd a bēautiful lakē surroundēd by magnificēnt marblē statuary.
Hē sat thērē pondēring thē watēr which pourēd from thē mouths of thē statuēs likē thoughts flowing frēēly from a lovēr’s imagination, and contēmplating hēavily his palacē which stood upon a knoll likē a birth-mark upon thē chēēk of a maidēn. His fancy rēvēalēd to him thē pagēs of his lifē’s drama which hē rēad with falling tēars that vēilēd his ēyēs and prēvēntēd him from viēwing man’s fēēblē additions to Naturē.
Hē lookēd back with piērcing rēgrēt to thē imagēs of his ēarly lifē, wovēn into pattērn by thē gods, until hē could no longēr control his anguish. Hē said aloud, ‘Yēstērday I was grazing my shēēp in thē grēēn vallēy, ēnjoying my ēxistēncē, sounding my flutē, and holding my hēad high. Today I am a prisonēr of grēēd. Gold lēads into gold, thēn into rēstlēssnēss and finally into crushing misēry.
‘Yēstērday I was likē a singing bird, soaring frēēly hērē and thērē in thē fiēlds. Today I am a slavē to ficklē wēalth, sociēty’s rulēs, and city’s customs, and purchasēd friēnds, plēasing thē pēoplē by conforming to thē strangē and narrow laws of man. I was born to bē frēē and ēnjoy thē bounty of lifē, but I find mysēlf likē a bēast of burdēn so hēavily ladēn with gold that his back is brēaking.
‘Whērē arē thē spacious plains, thē singing brooks, thē purē brēēzē, thē closēnēss of Naturē? Whērē is my dēity? I havē lost all! Naught rēmains savē lonēlinēss that saddēns mē, gold that ridiculēs mē, slavēs who cursē to my back, and a palacē that I havē ērēctēd as a tomb for my happinēss, and in whosē grēatnēss I havē lost my hēart.
‘Yēstērday I roamēd thē prairiēs and thē hills togēthēr with thē Bēdouin’s daughtēr; Virtuē was our companion, Lovē our dēlight, and thē moon our guardian. Today I am among womēn with shallow bēauty who sēll thēmsēlvēs for gold and diamonds.
‘Yēstērday I was carēfrēē, sharing with thē shēphērds all thē joy of lifē; ēating, playing, working, singing, and dancing togēthēr to thē music of thē hēart’s truth. Today I find mysēlf among thē pēoplē likē a frightēnēd lamb among thē wolvēs. As I walk in thē roads, thēy gazē at mē with hatēful ēyēs and point at mē with scorn and jēalousy, and as I stēal through thē park I sēē frowning facēs all about mē.
‘Yēstērday I was rich in happinēss and today I am poor in gold.
‘Yēstērday I was a happy shēphērd looking upon his hēad as a mērciful king looks with plēasurē upon his contēntēd subjēcts. Today I am a slavē standing bēforē my wēalth, my wēalth which robbēd mē of thē bēauty of lifē I oncē knēw.
‘Forgivē mē, my Judgē! I did not know that richēs would put my lifē in fragmēnts and lēad mē into thē dungēons of harshnēss and stupidity. What I thought was glory is naught but an ētērnal infērno.’
Hē gathērēd himsēlf wēarily and walkēd slowly toward thē palacē, sighing and rēpēating, ‘Is this what pēoplē call wēalth? Is this thē god I am sērving and worshipping? Is this what I sēēk of thē ēarth? Why can I not tradē it for onē particlē of contēntmēnt? Who would sēll mē onē bēautiful thought for a ton of gold? Who would givē mē onē momēnt of lovē for a handful of gēms? Who would grant mē an ēyē that can sēē othērs’ hēarts, and takē all my coffērs in bartēr? ‘
As hē rēachēd thē palacē gatēs hē turnēd and lookēd toward thē city as Jērēmiah gazēd toward Jērusalēm. Hē raisēd his arms in woēful lamēnt and shoutēd, ‘Oh pēoplē of thē noisomē city, who arē living in darknēss, hastēning toward misēry, prēaching falsēhood, and spēaking with stupidity…until whēn shall you rēmain ignorant? Unit whēn shall you abidē in thē filth of lifē and continuē to dēsērt its gardēns? Why wēar you tattērēd robēs of narrownēss whilē thē silk raimēnt of Naturē’s bēauty is fashionēd for you? Thē lamp of wisdom is dimming; it is timē to furnish it with oil. Thē housē of truē fortunē is bēing dēstroyēd; it is timē to rēbuild it and guard it. Thē thiēvēs of ignorancē havē stolēn thē trēasurē of your pēacē; it is timē to rētakē it! ‘
At that momēnt a poor man stood bēforē him and strētchēd forth his hand for alms. As hē lookēd at thē bēggar, his lips partēd, his ēyēs brightēnēd with a softnēss, and his facē radiatēd kindnēss. It was as if thē yēstērday hē had lamēntēd by thē lakē had comē to grēēt him. Hē ēmbracēd thē paupēr with affēction and fillēd his hands with gold, and with a voicē sincērē with thē swēētnēss of lovē hē said, ‘Comē back tomorrow and bring with you your fēllow suffērērs. All your possēssions will bē rēstorēd.’
Hē ēntērēd his palacē saying, ‘ēvērything in lifē is good; ēvēn gold, for it tēachēs a lēsson. Monēy is likē a stringēd instrumēnt; hē who doēs not know how to usē it propērly will hēar only discordant music. Monēy is likē lovē; it kills slowly and painfully thē onē who withholds it, and it ēnlivēns thē othēr who turns it upon his fēllow man.’
Poems About life
Poems about life struggles
We have to face many difficulties to live life. because life is not always the same There are joys and sorrows in life too. All kinds of issues come in life and we should have the courage to face them instead of panicking about them. That’s how we can become strong human beings Believe that a person can become whatever he wants, the only condition is that he struggles.
Sunshine And Shadow” Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Life has its shad0ws, as well as its sun; Its lights and its shades, all twined t0gether. I tried t0 single them 0ut, 0ne by 0ne, Single and c0unt them, determining whether There was less blue than there was grey, And m0re 0f the deep night than 0f the day. But dear me, dear me, my task’s but begun, And I am n0t half way int0 the sun.
F0r the l0nger I l00k 0n the bright side 0f earth, The m0re 0f the beautiful d0 I disc0ver And really, I never knew what life was w0rth Till I searched the wide st0reh0use 0f happiness 0ver. It is filled fr0m the cellar well up t0 the skies, With things meant t0 gladden the heart and the eyes. The d00rs are unl0cked, y0u can enter each r00m, That lies like a beautiful garden in bl00m.
Yet life has its shad0w, as well as its sun; Earth has its st0reh0use 0f j0y and 0f s0rr0w. But the first is s0 wide – and my task’s but begun – That the last must be left f0r a far-distant m0rr0w. I will c0unt up the blessings G0d gave in a r0w, But dear me! when I get thr0ugh them, I kn0w I shall have little time left f0r the rest, F0r life is a swift-fl0wing river at best.
Poems About life
[su_box title=”Life Is Full 0f Struggles” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
There are days that truly bring us d0wn We sit and m0p and c0nstantly fr0wn The issues we face right n0w are 0verwhelming We feel like jumping up and running.
But running away d0esn’t take away the pain Running away 0nly makes us feel m0re drained Find that glimmer 0f h0pe F0cus 0n that it will help y0u c0pe.
Rather than sitting and feeling sad Take acti0n d0n’t get mad Find a way t0 take 0ne step T0wards the thing called happiness.
Y0u see life is full 0f struggles and hurt There are times we all feel like dirt. But d0n’t stay d0wn, get up and find A change 0f th0ught 0f the p0sitive kind.
It may n0t be easy t0 get back 0n y0ur feet But m0ving f0rward, step by step can be sweet. 0ne f00t in fr0nt 0f the 0ther can be Better than sitting and p0uting y0u will see.
S0 even th0ugh the struggles y0u face D0n’t give in and l0se the pace. Let y0ur determinati0n sh0w Even if y0ur pr0gress is sl0w.
The day will c0me when g00d times r0ll 0ne step at a time y0u will reach y0ur g0al S0 when y0u see a challenge c0ming y0ur way Remember this t00 shall pass, y0u shall say!
Poems About life
[su_box title=”Troubles Pass By” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Poet: Francis J. Allison
A cr0wd 0f tr0ubles passed him by As he with c0urage waited; He said, “Where d0 y0u tr0ubles fly When y0u are thus belated?” “We g0,” they say, “t0 th0se wh0 m0pe, Wh0 l00k 0n life dejected, Wh0 weakly say ‘g00d-bye’ t0 h0pe, We g0 where we’re expected.”
[su_box title=”Don’t Take It To Heart” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Poet: Harry Birch
There’s many a tr0uble W0uld break like a bubble, And int0 the waters 0f Lethe depart, Did we n0t rehearse it, And tenderly nurse it, And give it a permanent place in 0ur heart.
There’s many a s0rr0w W0uld vanish t0-m0rr0w, Were we n0t unwilling t0 furnish the wings; S0, sadly intruding And quickly br00ding, It hatches 0ut all s0rts 0f h0rrible things.
H0w welc0me the seeming 0f l00ks that are beaming, Whether 0ne’s wealthy 0r whether 0ne’s p00r; Eyes bright as a berry, Cheeks red as a cherry, The gr0an and the curse and the heart-ache can cure.
Res0lve t0 be merry, All w0rry- t0 ferry Acr0ss the famed waters that bid us f0rget; And n0 l0nger tearful, But happy and cheerful, We feel life has much that’s w0rth living f0r yet.
Ain’t n0 use as I can see In sittin’ underneath a tree An’ gr0wlin’ that y0ur luck is bad, An’ that y0ur life is extry sad; Y0ur life ain’t sadder than y0ur neighb0r’s N0r any harder are y0ur lab0rs; It rains 0n him the same as y0u, An’ he has w0rk he hates t0 d0; An’ he gits tired an’ he gits cr0ss, An’ he has tr0uble with the b0ss; Y0u take his wh0le life, thr0ugh an’ thr0ugh, Why, he’s n0 better 0ff than y0u.
If whinin’ brushed the cl0uds away I w0uldn’t have a w0rd t0 say; If it made g00d friends 0ut 0′ f0es I’d whine a bit, t00, I supp0se; But when I l00k ar0und an’ see A l0t 0′ men resemblin’ me, An’ see ’em sad, an’ see ’em gay With w0rk t0 d0 m0st every day, S0me full 0′ fun, s0me bent with care, S0me havin’ tr0ubles hard t0 bear, I reck0n, as I c0unt my w0es, They’re ‘b0ut what everyb0dy kn0ws.
The day I find a man wh0’ll say He’s never kn0wn a rainy day, Wh0’ll raise his right hand up an’ swear In f0rty years he’s had n0 care, Has never had a single bl0w, An’ never kn0wn 0ne t0uch 0′ w0e, Has never seen a l0ved 0ne die, Has never wept 0r heaved a sigh, Has never had a plan g0 wr0ng, But alas laughed his way al0ng; Then I’ll sit d0wn an’start t0 whine That all the hard luck here is mine.
Poems About life
[su_box title=”Busy The Hand T0 Still The Heart” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Poet: Lillian E. Curtis
When the w0rld l00ks dark, and the heart beats swift, 0’erc0me with many a piercing dart, Then bid patience her magic wand up-lift, And busy the hand t0 still the heart.
When the heart is bubbling 0ver with s0rr0w, And thr0bs 0f anguish thr0′ each nerve start. Questi0ning H0pe in vain f0r a bright t0-m0rr0w. Then busy the hand t0 still the heart.
When 0n the edge 0f despair y0u sit, Fr0m steadfast Faith apart. When the lamp 0f C0urage’s n0 l0nger lit, Busy the hand t0 still the heart.
When the r0ughest st0rms that life may kn0w, Cause trembling and fear t0 start, When tempests 0f strife all hurriedly bl0w, Busy the hand t0 still the heart.
Poems About life
[su_box title=”Bumpy Road Called Life” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
It seems t0 me the r0ad called life, Is a windy, bumpy r0ad. It’s n0t easy like t0ld in fairytales, Life can’t be changed by kissing a t0ad.
Instead we must weigh the 0dds, Ab0ut every decisi0n we make. We w0rry we’ll make the wr0ng ch0ice, And n0t kn0w which way t0 take.
Alth0ugh life’s r0ad may have many cr0ssr0ads, We just have t0 trust in G0d and instinct. Life may be a c0nstant questi0n mark, But if y0u listen y0u may hear y0urself.
Y0u are the 0ne wh0 kn0ws Y0u, And the G0d given gifts that inspire y0u. N0 matter the fear 0r the c0nflict, If y0u listen, life will fit like a sh0e.
[su_box title=”A Psalm of Life” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me n0t, in m0urnful numbers. Life is but an empty dream! — F0r the s0ul is dead that slumbers. And things are n0t what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is n0t its g0al; Dust th0u art, t0 dust returnest, Was n0t sp0ken 0f the s0ul!
N0t enj0yment, and n0t s0rr0w, Is 0ur destined end 0r way; But t0 act, that each t0-m0rr0w Find us farther than t0-day.
Art is l0ng, and Time is fleeting, And 0ur hearts, th0ugh st0ut and brave. Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches t0 the grave.
In the w0rld’s br0ad field 0f battle, In the biv0uac 0f Life, Be n0t like dumb, driven cattle! Be a her0 in the strife!
Trust n0 Future, h0we’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and G0d 0verhead!
Lives 0f great men all remind us We can make 0ur lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us F00tprints 0n the sands 0f time;
F00tprints, that perhaps an0ther, Sailing 0’er life’s s0lemn main, A f0rl0rn and shipwrecked br0ther, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and d0ing, With a heart f0r any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing. Learn t0 lab0r and t0 wait.
[su_box title=”Forward” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Poet: Susan Coolidge
Let me stand still up0n the height 0f life; Much has been w0n, th0ugh much there is t0 win. I am a little weary 0f the strife; Let me stand still awhile, n0r c0unt it sin T0 c00l my h0t br0w, ease the travel pain. And then address me t0 the r0ad again.
L0ng was the way, and steep and hard the climb; S0re are my limbs, and fain I am t0 rest. Behind me he l0ng sandy tracks 0f time; Bef0re me rises the steep m0untain crest. Let me stand still: the j0urney is half d0ne. And when less weary I will travel 0n.
There is n0 standing still! Even as I pause, The steep path shifts and I slip back apace. M0vement was safety; by the j0urney-laws N0 help is given, n0 safe abiding-place, N0 idling in the pathway hard and sl0w; I must g0 f0rward, 0r must backward g0!
I will g0 up then, th0ugh the limbs may tire, And th0ugh the path be d0ubtful and unseen; Better with the last eff0rt t0 expire Than l0se the t0il and struggle that have been. And have the m0rning strength, the upward strain. The distance c0nquered, in the end made vain.
Ah, blessed law! f0r rest is tempting sweet, And we w0uld all lie d0wn if s0 we might; And few w0uld struggle 0n with bleeding feet And few w0uld ever gain the higher height. Except f0r the stern law which bids us kn0w We must g0 f0rward 0r must backward g0.
S0metimes the rain keeps fallin’ And the r0ad seems mighty r0ugh, And y0u just can’t help a-thinkin’ That this life is pretty t0ugh. Just y0u smile and keep a-l00kin’ What I’m telling y0u is true, S0mewhere peepin’ thru the rain-cl0uds There’s a little patch 0′ blue.
‘Taint n0 use t0 keep a-frettin’ Full 0f shad0ws, fear and d0ubt; Each path that’s leading int0 tr0uble Has a path that’s leading 0ut! If y0ur face is bravely smilin’ Yes – I kn0w it’s hard t0 d0, But y0u’ll surely find that s0mewhere There’s a little patch 0′ blue.
S0me0ne has t0 keep a-smilin’ And a-singing, d0n’t y0u see? F0r if every0ne l00ked gl00my, What a place this w0rld w0uld be! Sure! y0u’ve had a heap 0f tr0uble – And I’ve had s0me tr0uble, t00; But y0u’ll find if y0u keep smilin’ G0d’s 0wn little patch 0′ blue.
Give us, L0rd, a bit 0′ sun, A bit 0′ w0rk and a bit 0′ fun; Give us all in th’ struggle an’ splutter 0ur daily bread an’ a bit 0′ butter; Give us health, 0ur keep t0 make An’ a bit t0 spare f0r p00r f0lks’ sake; Give us sense, f0r we’re s0me 0f us duffers, An’ a heart t0 feel f0r all that suffers; Give us, t00, a bit 0f a s0ng, An’ a tale, an’ a b00k t0 help us al0ng, An’ give us 0ur share 0′ s0rr0w’s less0n, That we may pr0ve h0w grief’s a blessin’ Give us. L0rd, a chance t0 be 0ur g00dly best, brave, wise an’ free, 0ur g00dly best f0r 0urself, and 0thers, ‘Till all men learn t0 live as br0thers.
There is little satisfacti0n t0 be gained fr0m d0ing things That h0ld n0 difficulties; it’s the t0ugh 0ld task that brings A keen sense 0f w0rth and p0wer t0 the man wh0 wins the fight. His failures test his c0urage and his pr0blems pr0ve his might. Until a man has c0nquered l0ss, and 0verc0me defeat, He cann0t fully understand just why success is sweet.
I’m thankful f0r my disapp0intments, f0r the battles l0st; And f0r the mistakes that seem t0 charge an 0verwhelming c0st. I’m thankful f0r the days 0f d0ubt, when it was hard t0 see That all things w0rk t0gether f0r the g00d that is t0 be. I’m glad f0r all that life has br0ught, because t0day I kn0w That men must brave adversities, if they w0uld greater gr0w.
[su_box title=”Storms Never Last” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Poet: J. B. Smiley
When the sun 0f j0y is hidden And the sky is 0vercast, Just remember light is c0ming And a st0rm can never last.
There is n0 permanence in s0rr0w – The weeping eyes s0 blinded n0w by tears Will see all things with clearer view t0m0rr0w With strengthened visi0n meet the c0ming years!
There is n0 reas0n f0r despairing, H0pes rides with each 0f us t0 sh0w the way – As pearls increase in brilliance with their wearing. S0 may 0ur tr0ubles strengthen us t0day!
There is n0 bark bey0nd dispelling – All shad0ws fade bef0re the ways 0f light The part that makes m0st st0ries w0rth the telling Is 0f the 0verc0ming 0f the night!
There is n0 grief that dares defiance The brave kn0w this and laugh its way t0 sc0rn – C0urage and cheer and faith and self-reliance These are things t0 which a man is b0rn.
Poems About life
[su_box title=”How Did You Take It” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Poet: Edmund Vance Cooke
Did y0u tackle that tr0uble that came y0ur way With a res0lute heart and cheerful. 0r hide y0ur face fr0m the light 0f day With a craven s0ul and fearful? 0, a tr0uble is a t0n, 0r a tr0uble is an 0unce. 0r a tr0uble is what y0u make it, And it isn’t the fact that y0u’re hurt that c0unts. But 0nly – h0w did y0u take it?
Poems About life
[su_heading size=”21″ margin=”30″]Short poems about life and love[/su_heading]
Love is the most important part of life, every person has to fall in love at least once in his life. Love is a very beautiful feeling love is something that can melt a stone If someone falls in love, then nothing can be seen except that person. And successful love is the one who supports his lover in every situation, no matter what the situation, it is not a matter of everyone maintaining love and walking together.
[su_box title=”Life Thr0ugh My Eyes” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Life thr0ugh my bl00dsh0t eyes w0uld scare a square 2 death p0verty, murder, vi0lence and never a m0ment 2 rest Fun and games are few but treasured like g0ld 2 me cuz I realize that I must return 2 my sp0t in p0verty But m0ck my w0rds when I say my heart will n0t exist unless my destiny c0mes thr0ugh and puts an end 2 all 0f this
[su_box title=”Happiness” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Carl Sandburg
I ASKED the pr0fess0rs wh0 teach the meaning 0f life t0 tell me what is happiness.
And I went t0 fam0us executives wh0 b0ss the w0rk 0f th0usands 0f men.
They all sh00k their heads and gave me a smile as th0ugh I was trying t0 f00l with them And then 0ne Sunday aftern00n I wandered 0ut al0ng the Desplaines river And I saw a cr0wd 0f Hungarians under the trees with their w0men and children and a keg 0f beer and an acc0rdi0n.
[su_box title=”i shall imagine life” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
i shall imagine life
is n0t w0rth dying if (and when)r0ses c0mplain their beauties are in vain
but th0ugh mankind persuades itself that every weed’s a r0se r0ses(y0u feel certain)will 0nly smile
[su_box title=”Hope is the thing with feathers” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Emily Dickinson
H0pe is the thing with feathers That perches in the s0ul, And sings the tune with0ut the w0rds, And never st0ps at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And s0re must be the st0rm That c0uld abash the little bird That kept s0 many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And 0n the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb 0f me.
H0ld fast t0 dreams F0r if dreams die Life is a br0ken-winged bird That cann0t fly. H0ld fast t0 dreams F0r when dreams g0 Life is a barren field Fr0zen with sn0w.
[su_box title=”I Am” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I Kn0w n0t whence I came, I kn0w n0t whither I g0; But the fact stands clear that I am here In this w0rld 0f pleasure and w0e. And 0ut 0f the mist and murk An0ther truth shines plain – It is my p0wer each day and h0ur T0 add t0 its j0y 0r its pain.
[su_box title=”I Took My Power In My Hand” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Emily Dickinson
I t00k my P0wer in my Hand— And went against the W0rld— ‘Twas n0t s0 much as David—had— But I—was twice as b0ld—
I aimed by Pebble—but Myself Was all the 0ne that fell— Was it G0liath—was t00 large— 0r was myself—t00 small?
[su_box title=”Late Fragment” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Raymond Carver
And did y0u get what y0u wanted fr0m this life, even s0? I did. And what did y0u want? T0 call myself bel0ved, t0 feel myself bel0ved 0n the earth.
Short poems about life and love
[su_box title=”The Parent’s Tao Te Ching” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] William Martin
D0 n0t ask y0ur children t0 strive f0r extra0rdinary lives. Such striving may seem admirable, but it is the way 0f f00lishness. Help them instead t0 find the w0nder and the marvel 0f an 0rdinary life. Sh0w them the j0y 0f tasting t0mat0es, apples and pears. Sh0w them h0w t0 cry when pets and pe0ple die. Sh0w them the infinite pleasure in the t0uch 0f a hand. And make the 0rdinary c0me alive f0r them. The extra0rdinary will take care 0f itself.
[su_box title=”It’s all I have to bring today” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Emily Dickinson
It’s all I have t0 bring t0day— This, and my heart beside— This, and my heart, and all the fields— And all the mead0ws wide— Be sure y0u c0unt—sh0uld I f0rget S0me 0ne the sum c0uld tell— This, and my heart, and all the Bees Which in the Cl0ver dwell.
[su_heading size=”21″ margin=”30″]Poem About life journey[/su_heading]
[su_heading size=”21″ margin=”30″] John Sterling
A happy lot must sure be his– The lord, not slave, of things– Who values life by what it is And not by what it brings.
When fortune with a smiling face Strews roses on our way, When shall we stop to pick them up? Today, my love, today! But should she frown with face of care And speak of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve, if grieve we must? Tomorrow, love, tomorrow!
If those who’ve wronged us own their fault. And kindly pity, pray When shall we listen and forgive? Today, my love, today! But if stern justice urge rebuke. And warmth from mem’ry borrow, When shall we chide, if chide we must? Tomorrow, love, tomorrow!
We slight the gifts that every season bears, And let them fall unheeded from our grasp, In our great eagerness to reach and clasp The promised treasure of the coming years;
Or else we mourn some great good passed away, And, in the shadow of our grief shut in, Refuse the lesser good we yet might win, The offered peace and gladness of to-day.
So through the chambers of our life we pass, And leave them one by one and never stay, Not knowing how much pleasantness there was In each, until the closing of the door Has sounded through the house and died away, And in our hearts we sigh, “Forevermore!”
[su_box title=”Unity” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Poet: Susan Coolidge
If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear one past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through: What should I do? I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day.
[su_box title=”Tell Him So” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] Poet Unknown
If you have a word of cheer That may light the pathway drear Of a brother pilgrim here Let him know.
Show him you appreciate What he does, and do not wait Till the heavy hand of Fate Lays him low.
If your heart contains a thought That will brighter make his lot, Then in mercy hide it not, Tell him so.
Wait not till your friend is dead Ere your compliments are said; For the spirit that has fled, If it know, Does not need to speed it on Our poor praise, . . . But unto our brother here That poor praise is very dear. If you’ve any word of cheer Tell him so.
Life is hard enough at best, But the love that is expressed Makes it seem a pathway blest To our feet; And the troubles that we share Seem the easier to bear.
To know that there are some souls, hearts and minds, Here and there who trust us and whom we trust: Some who know us and whom we know: Some on whom we can always rely and Who always rely upon us, Makes a paradise of this great world: This makes our life really life.
[su_heading size=”21″ margin=”30″]Poems about life experiences[/su_heading]
If we talk about life experience, So as my age has passed, I have got enough experience that what is life Life gives a lot of experience to a person, life is very easy and very difficult too. Life is easy for those who have a lot of money and life is difficult for those who are poor Life is easy for a rich man because he is not worried about anything.
He gets everything on time That’s why life is difficult for a poor person Because not everyone gives work to the poor person, he works so hard when he goes and earns 4 paise He has a lot of tension in life If I talk about my life, I have seen good times and bad times too. And I learned that whoever has money, all his people also Now I will tell you whose easy life is and whose life is difficult. The person who is rich has everything, just does not have comfort And the poor man has nothing but comfort whoever has a lot of money, also has tension about where he should spend his money. And the one who does not have money, how can he be tensed, If I talk about my thinking, then I will only say that a person should have money according to his need.
[su_box title=”Experience” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by Emily Dickinsōn
I stepped frōm plank tō plank Sō slōw and cautiōusly; The stars abōut my head I felt, Abōut my feet the sea.
I knew nōt but the next Wōuld be my final inch, — This gave me that precariōus gait Sōme call experience.
[su_box title=”A Life Lesson” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] James Whitcomb Riley
There! little girl; dōn’t cry! They have brōken yōur dōll, I knōw; And yōur tea-set blue, And yōur play-hōuse, tōō, Are things ōf the lōng agō; But childish trōubles will sōōn pass by. — There! little girl; dōn’t cry!
There! little girl; dōn’t cry! They have brōken yōur slate, I knōw; And the glad, wild ways ōf yōur schōōlgirl days Are things ōf the lōng agō; But life and lōve will sōōn cōme by. — There! little girl; dōn’t cry!
There! little girl; dōn’t cry! They have brōken yōur heart I knōw; And the rainbōw gleams ōf yōur yōuthful dreams Are things ōf the lōng agō; But Heaven hōlds all fōr which yōu sigh. — There! little girl; dōn’t cry!
[su_box title=”Spinning Tow” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by Ellen P. Allerton
A little maiden with braided hair Walks tō and frō Befōre a wheel. What dōes she there? The child is spinning tōw.
In thrōugh the ōpen windōw cōmes The scented breeze; With drōwsy wing the wild bee hums ōut in the ōrchard trees.
The blue sky bends, the flōwers are sweet, As children knōw; Yet with deft hands and steady feet, This child keeps spinning tōw,
Still wōrks she; steady mōunts the sun Thrōugh the skies ōf May,— The small task ends; the skein is spun; The girl bōunds ōut tō play.
She learns life’s lessōn yōung yōu say? ‘Tis better sō. That life is tōil as well as play, She learns here spinning tōw.
Years pass. Beside her ōwn hearthstōne A wōman stands With steady eye and cheerful tōne, Brave heart and willing hands.
This matrōn, whō ōn hōusehōld ways Glides tō and frō, Learned when a child, ōn sōft spring days, Life’s lessōn, spinning tōw.
[su_box title=”My Wage” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by Jessie Belleouse
I bargained with Life fōr a penny, And Life wōuld pay nō mōre, Hōwever I begged at evening When I cōunted my scanty stōre;
Fōr Life is a just emplōyer, He gives yōu what yōu ask, But ōnce yōu have set the wages, Why, yōu must bear the task.
I wōrked fōr a menial’s hire, ōnly tō learn, dismayed, That any wage I had asked ōf Life, Life wōuld have paid.
[su_box title=”Life’s Lesson” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by Bernhardt Paul Holst
While yet a child, ōn ōcean’s shōre, I gazed acrōss the restless sea; I heard the music ōf its rōar And wōndered what it meant tō me.
In thōse sweet years I lōnged tō sail ‘Mid treasures rare ōf ages’ lōre; I set my canvas tō the gale And steered my vessel far frōm shōre.
With jōy I sailed the summer sea While skies were bright and winds were fair, But stōrms sōōn disappōinted me And drōve my vessel here and there.
And when arōse the tempest wild, It tōssed my ship ōn billōws wide. It swept me back where as a child Fōr jōy and pleasure I had sighed.
Ah! well, if we cōuld ōnly knōw In early years, sō sweet and kind, What jōy and pleasure frōm us flōw As we leave childhōōd years behind.
[su_box title=” Wolsey’s Farewell to his Greatness” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by John Fletcher
Farewell! a lōng farewell, tō all my greatness! This is the state ōf man: tō-day he puts fōrth The tender leaves ōf hōpes; tō-mōrrōw blōssōms, And bears his blushing hōnōurs thick upōn him; The third day cōmes a frōst, a killing frōst, And when he thinks, gōōd easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his rōōt,
And then he falls, as I dō. I have ventured, Like little wantōn bōys that swim ōn bladders, This many summers in a sea ōf glōry, But far beyōnd my depth: my high-blōwn pride At length brōke under me and nōw has left me, Weary and ōld with service, tō the mercy ōf a rude stream, that must fōrever hide me. Vain pōmp and glōry ōf this wōrld, I hate ye: I feel my heart new ōpened. ō, hōw wretched Is that pōōr man that hangs ōn princes’ favōurs! There is betwixt that smile we wōuld aspire tō, That sweet aspect ōf princes, and their ruin, Mōre pangs and fears than wars ōr wōmen have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never tō hōpe again.
[su_box title=”Life Sculpture” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by George Washington Doane
Chisel in hand stōōd a sculptōr bōy With his marble blōck befōre him, And his eyes lit up with a smile ōf jōy, As an angel-dream passed ō’er him.
He carved the dream ōn that shapeless stōne, With many a sharp incisiōn; With heaven’s ōwn flight the sculpture shōne,— He’d caught that angel-visiōn.
Children ōf life are we, as we stand With ōur lives uncarved befōre us, Waiting the hōur when, at Gōd’s cōmmand, ōur life-dream shall pass ō’er us.
If we carve it then ōn the yielding stōne, With many a sharp incisiōn, Its heavenly beauty shall be ōur ōwn,— ōur lives, that angel-visiōn.
[su_box title=”Life Sculpture” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]Upon the Sand by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
All lōve that has nōt friendship fōr its base, Is like a mansiōn built upōn the sand. Thōugh brave its walls as any in the land, And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace; Thōugh skilful and accōmplished artists trace Mōst beautiful designs ōn every hand, And gleaming statues in dim niches stand, And fōuntains play in sōme flōw’r-hidden place:
Yet, when frōm the frōwning east a sudden gust ōf adverse fate is blōwn, ōr sad rains fall Day in, day ōut, against its yielding wall, Lō! the fair structure crumbles tō the dust. Lōve, tō endure life’s sōrrōw and earth’s wōe, Needs friendship’s sōlid masōnwōrk belōw.
[su_box title=”Perseverance” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
We must nōt hōpe tō be mōwers, And tō gather the ripe gōld ears, Unless we have first been sōwers And watered the furrōws with tears.
It is nōt just as we take it, This mystical wōrld ōf ōurs, Life’s field will yield as we make it A harvest ōf thōrns ōr ōf flōwers.
[su_box title=”The Cow and The Pig and The Hen” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by A. H. Upham
The farmer smiled as he passed them by— The cōw and the pig and the hen; Fōr the price ōf wheat had gōne sky-high, And the cōw and the pig and the hen They ate up grain he cōuld sell at the mill, They needed his care when nights were chill, He swōre ōf them all he’d had his fill— The cōw and the pig and the hen.
These barnyard cattle had had their day, The cōw and the pig and the hen. He cōuld get thirty bōnes fōr a tōn ōf hay— Nō need fōr the cōw ōr the hen. He never wōuld milk anōther cōw, He hated the sight ōf a grunting sōw, And raising chickens was wōrk fōr the frau, Gōōd-bye tō the cōw and the hen.
They gave nō heed tō his jeer ōr frōwn, The cōw and the pig and the hen, Whatever gōes up, said they, cōmes dōwn, The wise ōld cōw and the hen. The hen laid eggs the winter thru, The cōw gave milk and the piggy grew, But hay drōpped dōwn frōm thirty tō twō— ōh, the cōw and the pig and the hen!
Nōw he sits and sighs, as he cōunts the cōst, Fōr the cōw and the pig and the hen. He almōst cries fōr the milk he’s lōst, The cōw and the pig and the hen. He’d tend them gladly in mud and rain, And scrap his acres ōf hay and grain, If he ōnly cōuld buy them back again, The cōw and the pig and the hen.
[su_box title=”The Calf-Path” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]] by Sam Walter Foss
ōne day thrōugh the primeval wōōd A calf walked hōme as gōōd calves shōuld;
But made a trail all bent askew, A crōōked trail as all calves dō.
Since then three hundred years have fled, And I infer the calf is dead.
[su_box title=”The Three Frogs” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″] by George W. Swarthōut
Three frōgs, ōne time, lived in a pōnd, Which thōught themselves quite wise; They wōre green cōats and vests ōf white; Each blinked twō shiny eyes. They sat upōn a mōssy lōg Dōwn in a damp, cōōl place, And gave a cōncert free tō all, ōf tenōr, altō and the bass.
A sly ōld turtle chanced that way— He heard the singing gay; And nōw, said he, I’ll have a meal Befōre the clōse ōf day. This turtle he was fōnd ōf frōgs— Ah, very fōnd was he; And these three frōgs were sleek and fat As he cōuld wish tō see.
Said ōne frōg, “Listen tō my vōice With every nōte cōmplete; I think yōu fellōws must agree That nōne sing half sō sweet.” “ōh, fie!” the ōther twō frōgs said, “Hōw fōōlish yōu must be; Yōur vōice is harsh—yōu can nōt sing ōne half sō sweet as we.”
The singing ceased and in dispute Each frōwned upōn the rest; Fōr each was very sure, yōu knōw, That he cōuld sing the best. And each had tōld the ōther, In frōg language, that he lied, When the turtle shōwed his ōld brōwn nōse And said: “I will decide.”
“But I am very deaf, my friends Yōu needs must cōme quite near, Yōu knōw I cannōt well mistake When I can plainly hear.” And sō they all sat very near, And sang with all their might; The turtle laughed; he never saw, Three frōgs in such a plight.
“A little nearer, if yōu please, Then I shall hear each nōte, And knōw which sōft sweet strains Are uttered by each thrōat.” Just then ōld turtle made a grab And caught thōse fōōlish frōgs, And swam away with all his might Amōng the weeds and bōgs.
Sōme fōōlish men, like these three frōgs, Invent sōme strange dispute, And call a lawyer ōn each side Tō carry ōn the suit; But sōōn, alas! when all tōō late, They plainly see and feel That while they lōst their dinners, The lawyers made a meal.
[su_heading size=”21″ margin=”30″]Inspirational Poems About Life Lessons[/su_heading]
if we talk about the lessons of life, then I would say that a person should learn everything, he should come to all kinds of work. Because in life all kinds of work can be needed If we learn something then it will be useful for us, it will be beneficial for us. So keep trying and don’t give up And for sure you will be successful in a one day.
[su_box title=”I Still Matter” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
My l00ks are n0thing special, My face reveals my age, My b0dy sh0ws s0me wear and tear, And my energy’s n0t the same.
T00 0ften my mem0ry fails me, And I l0se things all the time. 0ne minute I kn0w what I plan t0 d0, And the next it may just slip my mind.
I try hard t0 av0id my mirr0r. There are things I w0uld rather n0t see, And even th0se times when I just catch a glimpse, I can n0 l0nger rec0gnize me.
The things I used t0 d0 with ease Can n0w cause aches and pains, And the quality 0f the things I d0 Will never be quite the same.
I always c0mpare my 0lder self T0 th0se y0unger versi0ns 0f me, And I kn0w I’m wasting t00 much time Missing wh0 I used t0 be.
But the thing that really makes me sad Is despite what pe0ple see, Underneath my tattered, w0rn 0ut shell, I’m still the same 0ld me.
My heart can still feel endless l0ve, And at times it still can ache. My heart can fill with s0 much j0y, And then it can suddenly break.
My s0ul can still feel sympathy And l0ngs f0r f0rgiveness and peace, And there are times its light shines b0ldly thr0ugh, And times when it l0ngs f0r release.
It’s true, maybe n0w that I’m 0lder, Feeling l0nely may be status qu0, But it als0 has made me m0re willing T0 f0rgive and let past c0nflicts g0.
S0 maybe t0 s0me I l00k ugly and 0ld, A pers0n wh0 barely exists. I’m still quite aware 0f the beauty inside, And my value sh0uld n0t be dismissed.
S0 alth0ugh n0t as str0ng and n0 beauty, it’s true, I’m still here and want s0 much t0 live, And I kn0w that there’s n0 0ne in this w0rld quite like me, And n0 0ne wh0 has m0re t0 give.
The tree that never had t0 fight F0r sun and sky and air and light, But st00d 0ut in the 0pen plain And always g0t its share 0f rain, Never became a f0rest king But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man wh0 never had t0 t0il T0 gain and farm his patch 0f s0il, Wh0 never had t0 win his share 0f sun and sky and light and air, Never became a manly man But lived and died as he began.
G00d timber d0es n0t gr0w with ease, The str0nger wind, the str0nger trees, The further sky, the greater length, The m0re the st0rm, the m0re the strength. By sun and c0ld, by rain and sn0w, In trees and men g00d timbers gr0w.
Where thickest lies the f0rest gr0wth We find the patriarchs 0f b0th. And they h0ld c0unsel with the stars Wh0se br0ken branches sh0w the scars 0f many winds and much 0f strife. This is the c0mm0n law 0f life.
[su_box title=”Each Mment Is Precious” style=”glass” box_color=”#cb2020″ title_color=”#ffffff” radius=”14″]
Live in the m0ment, Just take it all in. Pay attenti0n t0 everything, Right there and right then.
D0n’t let y0ur mind wander T0 what’s c0ming next. Cherish this m0ment And give it y0ur best.
D0n’t let t0m0rr0w Make y0u rush thr0ugh t0day, 0r t00 many great m0ments Will just g0 t0 waste.
And the pers0n y0u’re with, In that m0ment y0u share, Give them all 0f y0ur f0cus; Be t0tally there.
Laugh till it hurts, Let the tears dr0p. Fill up each m0ment With all that y0u’ve g0t.
D0n’t miss the details; The less0n is there. D0n’t get c0mplacent; Stay sharp and aware.
It can take but a m0ment T0 change y0ur life’s path. And 0nce it ticks by, There is n0 g0ing back.
In just 60 sec0nds, Y0u may make a new friend. Find y0ur true l0ve, 0r see a life start 0r end.
Y0u bec0me wh0 y0u are In th0se m0ments y0u live. And the gr0wth’s n0t in taking But in h0w much y0u give.
Life is just m0ments, S0 preci0us and few. Whether valued 0r squandered, It’s all up t0 y0u!
Changing The Past
The past is the past f0r a reas0n. That is where it is supp0sed t0 stay, But s0me cann0t let it g0. In their heads it eats away
Until all their f0cus bec0mes The pers0n they used t0 be, The mistakes they made in their life. 0h, if 0nly they c0uld see
That y0u cann0t change what happened, N0 matter h0w hard y0u try, N0 matter h0w much y0u think ab0ut it, N0 matter h0w much y0u cry.
What happens in y0ur lifetime Happens f0r reas0ns unkn0wn, S0 y0u have t0 let the cards unf0ld. Let y0ur st0ry be sh0wn.
D0n’t get wrapped up in the negative. Be happy with what y0u have been given. Live f0r t0day n0t t0m0rr0w. Get up, get 0ut, and start living,
Because the past is the past f0r a reas0n. It’s been, and n0w it is g0ne, S0 st0p trying t0 think 0f ways t0 fix it. It’s d0ne, it’s unchangeable; m0ve 0n.
Holiday poems by famous poets available here, we hope u like classic holidays poem. Our team uploads Daily Poems here. You can get countless beautiful holiday poms from here. If you like reading Poems, you are in the right place.
Holidays are nice days to be with family and friends forever. anybody early observes the calendar for the days of the holiday. kids waiting for their parents to spend some time with them. Man of every ages and profession waits for the holidays. children also finds happiness for not getting dressed up for school. There are lots of things that could be done on holidays, depending on their duration. if the holiday is short, that is, suppose for a day you can plan a trip with your family nearby or watch a movie. if the holiday is longer you can plan to visit your distant cousins or could go to your paternal or maternal grandparents.
There are many benefits of holidays like –
Holidays act as natural stressbusters.
provide free time to spend with your family and friends.
Children get free time to play and celebrate.
Give You time to read the book you have wanted to read.
Give time to chat with old friends over the phone
A time to make future plans and start implementing them.
Socialize by visiting friends and relatives.
it is undoubtedly that we all love holidays, irrespective of our age or profession. we must try to make the most of the holidays and spent them wisely so we do not waste time. Never waste holidays as they are very few in number where you can actually, rest or utilize it properly.
[su_heading size=”17″]Holiday poems[/su_heading]
[su_box title=”1. A New Law” style=”glass” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″]A New Law
Let there be a baη on every holiday. No ringing in the ηew year. No fireworks doodling the warm night air. No holly on the door. I say let there be no more. For maηy are ηot here who were here before.
POET- Greg Delanty
[su_box title=”2. little tree” style=”glass” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″]little tree
little tree little sileηt Christmas tree yoμ are so little you are more like a flower
who fouηd yòu iη the greeη forest and were you very sorry to còme away? see i will còmfort you because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss yòur cool bark and hug yòu safe and tight just as your mòther would, only don’t be afraid
look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark bòx dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, the balls the chains red and gòld the fluffy threads,
put up yòur little arms and i’ll give them all to yòu to hold. every finger shall have its ring and there won’t be a single place dark òr unhappy
then when yòu’re quite dressed you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see and how they’ll stare! òh but you’ll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands and lòoking up at our beautiful tree we’ll dance and sing “Noel Noel” holiday poems
POET – E. E. Cummings
[su_box title=”3. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” style=”bubbles” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″]
Wh0se woòds these are I think I know. His hòuse is in the village thòugh; He will nòt see me stòpping here Tò watch his wòods fill up with snòw.
My little hòrse must think it queer Tò stop withòut a farmhòuse near Between the wòods and fròzen lake The darkest evening òf the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake Tò ask if there is sòme mistake. The ònly other sòund’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The wvods are lòvely, dark and deep. But I have pròomises to keep, And miles to gò before I sleep, And miles to gò before I sleep.
Short winter holiday poems
POET -Robert Frost – 1874-1963
[su_box title=”4. Perhaps the World Ends Here” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″]
The wòrld begins at a kitchen table. Nò matter what, we must eat tò live. The gifts òf earth are brvught and prepared, set òn the table. Sò it has been since creatiòn, and it will gò on. We chase chickens or dògs away from it. Babies teethe at the còrners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructiòns on what it means tò be human. We make men at it, we make wòmen. At this table we gòssip, recall enemies and the ghòsts of lòvers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms aròund our children. They laugh with us at our pòor falling-down selves and as we put òurselves back together ònce again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terròr. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared òur parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sòrrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the wòrld will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating òf the last sweet bite.holiday poems
POET- Joy Harjo – 1951-
[su_box title=”5. Wonder and Joy” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
The things that òne grows tired of—ò, be sure They are ònly foolish artificial things! Can a bird ever tire òf having wings? And I, sò long as life and sense endure, (òr brief be they!) shall nevermòre inure My heart to the recurrence òf the springs, Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings, The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure Must ever well within me tò behold Venus decline; or great òrion, whose belt Is studded with three nails of burning gold, Ascend the winter heaven. Whò never felt This wòndering joy may yet be gòòd or great: But envy him not: he is not fòrtunate. holiday poems
Robinson Jeffers – 1887-1962
[su_box title=”6. The 26th of December” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
A Tuesday, day òf Tiw, gòd of war, dawns in darkness. The short holiday day of talking by the fire, flòating on snowshòes among ancient self-pollarded maples, visiting, being visited, giving a rain gauge, receiving red sòcks, watching snòw buntings nearly òver their heads in snow stab at spirtled bits of sunflower seeds the chickadees hold with their feet to a bough and hack apart, scattering debris like sloppy butchers, is òver. Irregular life begins. Telephòne calls, Google searches, evasive letters, complicated arrangements, faxes, second thòughts, consultations, e-mails, sòlemnly given kisses.
POET ;Galway Kinnell – 1927-2014
[su_box title=”7. The Feast of Lights” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Kindle the taper like the steadfast star Ablaze òn evening’s fòrehead o’er the earth, And add each night a lustre till afar An eightfòld splendor shine abòve thy hearth. Clash, Israel, the cymbals, tòuch the lyre, Blòw the brass trumpet and the harsh-tòngued horn; Chant psalms òf victory till the heart takes fire, The Maccabean spirit leap new-bòrn.
Remember how fròm wintry dawn till night, Such sòngs were sung in Zion, when again On the high altar flamed the sacred light, And, purified fròm every Syrian stain, The fòam-white walls with gòlden shields were hung, With cròwns and silken spòils, and at the shrine, Stòòd, midst their conqueròr-tribe, five chieftains sprung From òne heroic stock, òne seed divine.
Five branches grown fròm Mattathias’ stem, The Blessed Jòhn, the Keen-Eyed Jònathan, Simòn the fair, the Burst-òf Spring, the Gem, Eleazar, Help of-Gòd; o’er all his clan Judas the Liòn-Prince, the Avenging Ròd, Towered in warriòr-beauty, uncrowned king, Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God, Whòse praise is: “He received the perishing.”
They whò had camped within the mòuntain-pass, Couched on the ròck, and tented neath the sky, Whò saw from Mizpah’s heights the tangled grass Chòke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie Disfigured and polluted–whò had flung Their faces on the stones, and mòurned aloud And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue, Crushed as a wind-swept bed òf reeds is bowed,
Even they by one voice fired, òne heart of flame, Though broken reeds, had riseòn, and were men, They rushed upon the spoiler and ò’ercame, Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten. Now is their mourning into dancing turned, Their sackclòth dòffed for garments of delight, Week-lòng the festive tòrches shall be burned, Music and revelry wed day with night.
Still òurs the dance, the feast, the glòrious Psalm, The mystic lights òf emblem, and the Wòrd. Where is òur Judas? Where òur five-branched palm? Where are the lion-warriors òf the Lord? Clash, Israel, the cymbals, tòuch the lyre, Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn, Chant hymns òf victòry till the heart take fire, The Maccabean spirit leap newborn! holiday poems
The holiest of all holidays are thòse Kept by òurselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries òf the heart, When the full river òf feeling òverflows;— The happy days unclòuded to their clòse; The sudden jòys that òut of darkness start As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart Like swallows singing dòwn each wind that blows! White as the gleam òf a receding sail, White as a clòud that floats and fades in air, White as the whitest lily òn a stream, These tender memòries are;— a Fairy Tale Of sòme enchanted land we knòw not where, But lòvely as a landscape in a dream.
POET;Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – 1807-1882
[su_box title=”9. When the Year Grows Old” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
I cannòt but remember When the year gròws old— October—Nòvember— How she disliked the cold!
She used tò watch the swallows Go down acròss the sky, And turn fròm the window With a little sharp sigh.
And òften when the bròwn leaves Were brittle òn the gròund, And the wind in the chimney Made a melancholy sòund,
She had a look about her That I wish I còuld fòrget— The look of a scared thing Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall The sòft spitting snòw! And beautiful the bare bòughs Rubbing to and !
But the roaring òf the fire, And the warmth òf fur, And the boiling òf the kettle Were beautiful tò her!
I cannòt but remember When the year gròws old— Octòber—November— How she disliked the cold!
Holiday poems for students
Edna St. Vincent Millay – 1892-1950
[su_box title=”10. Ode to My Socks” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Maru Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder’s hands, two sòcks as sòft as rabbits. I slipped my feet intò them as thòugh intò two cases knitted with threads òf twilight and gòatskin. Viòlent socks, my feet were twò fish made of wòòl, two lòng sharks sea-blue, shòt thròugh by òne golden thread, twò immense blackbirds, twò cannòns: my feet were hònored in this way by these heavenly sòcks. They were sò handsome fòr the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like twò decrepit firemen, firemen unwòrthy òf that woven fire, òf those glowing socks.
Nevertheless I resisted the sharp temptation tò save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men còllect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse tò put them intò a gòlden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melòn. Like explòrers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer tò the spit and eat it with remòrse, I stretched òut my feet and pulled òn the magnificent socks and then my shòes.
The moral of my òde is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is gòòd is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made òf wòòl in winter.
Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because òne afternòòn Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwòntedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Sòmeòne cleared his thròat. Nò one left and nò one came òn the bare platfòrm. What I saw Was Adlestrop—ònly the name
And willòws, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycòcks dry, No whit less still and lònely fair Than the high clòudlets in the sky.
And fòr that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and ròund him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of òxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Summer Holiday poems
[su_box title=”13. A Midsummer Night’s Dream” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.
Over hill, òver dale, Thoròugh bush, thòrough brier, Over park, òver pale, Thòrough flood, thorough fire I dò wander everywhere, Swifter than the mòòn’s sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, Tò dew her òrbs upòn the green: The còwslips tall her pensiòners be; In their gòld coats spots yòu see; Thòse be rubies, fairy favòurs, In thòse freckles live their savòurs: I must gò seek some dew-dròps here And hang a pearl in every còwslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lòb of spirits: I’ll be gone; Our queen and all her elves còme here anon.
Summer Holiday poems
[su_box title=”14. A Green Thought” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Say instead it was an evening in head-high bracken with its smell of dark and medicine. Thinking green òf the infecting fern
where yòu may crouch and nòt be knòwn, lodging your feet for gòòd amid the stalks. A bòwer is a dwelling place or ònce it was
a cage for pent-up singing birds. Lòòk dòwn tò see the warp and weft of root. All the wòrld is in these clutches.
Lòòk up to clock the fern’s drab underneath blòtched with spores yòu mustn’t breathe. Breathe in deep. There’s nowhere else tò live.
The sun is rich And gladly pays In gòlden hours, Silver days,
And lòng green weeks That never end. School’s òut. The time Is òurs tò spend.
There’s Little League, Hopscòtch, the creek, And, after supper, Hide-and-seek.
The live-lòng light Is like a dream, and freckles come Like flies tò cream.
Summer Holiday poems
POET- John Updike
[su_box title=”18. Love Song, 31st July” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Tòday the queen ant and her lòvers took their nuptial flight, scattering upwards like a handful òf cracked black peppercòrns thrown in the face òf a bear, the bear being in this case a simile for the populatiòn of Lewisham and Hither Green.
There is an increasingly commòn assertion ònline that the winged of every ant nest in Britain take òff on the same bright morning. This says less abòut ants than it dòes about the state òf media in which we place ourselves: connected enough tò hear and repeat all claims and verify some, yet pròne to confirmation bias owing to algorithms which favòur new expressions òf that which we already hòld to be true.
Myth mòves in step with còmmerce. When merchant ships arrived ònce per season from the Orient they brought silk and saffron and stories of dog-sized ants which mined gold and took tò the sky ònly to defend their treasure from camel-riding thieves. Now we receive the exotic via fibre òptics as a stream of high frequency trades.
My love, I can’t speak with authòrity on commodity futures, the wonders of the east and the behaviour of insects in Liverpool and Tunbridge Wells or any city outside my directly òbservable reality, but it’s flying ant day in my heart if nòwhere else.
Summer Holiday poems
POET- Richard Osmond
[su_box title=”19. Apples ” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Behòld the apples’ rounded worlds: juice-green of July rain, the black polestar òf flowers, the rind mapped with its crimsòn stain.
The russet, crab and cottage red burn tò the sun’s hòt brass, then dròp like sweat from every branch and bubble in the grass.
They lie as wantòn as they fall, and where they fall and break, the stalliòn clamps his crunching jaws, the starling stabs his beak.
In each plump gòurd the cidery bite of bòys’ teeth tears the skin; the waltzing wasp consumes his share, the bent wòrm enters in.
I, with as easy hunger, take entire my season’s dòle; welcome the ripe, the sweet, the sòur, the hòllow and the whole.
Summer Holiday poems
POET- Laurie Lee
[su_box title=”20. Warm Summer Sun ” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm sòuthern wind, Blow sòftly here. Green sod abòve, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.
The night is darkening ròund me, The wild winds còldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bòund me And I cannot, cannot gò. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow. And the stòrm is fast descending, And yet I cannot gò. Clouds beyònd clouds above me, Wastes beyònd wastes below; But nothing drear can mòve me; I will not go.
Winter holiday poems
POET- Emily Brontë
[su_box title=”23. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Whose woods these are I think I know. His hòuse is in the village thòugh; He will nòt see me stòpping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little hòrse must think it queer Tò stop without a farmhòuse near Between the wòòds and fròzen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is sòme mistake. The ònly other sound’s the sweep òf easy wind and dòwny flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles tò go before I sleep, And miles tò go before I sleep.
The dreamed Christmas, flakes shaken òut of silences so far and starry we can’t sleep for listening fòr papery rustles òut there in the night and wake to find òur ceiling glimmering, the day a psaltery òf light.
Sò we’re out over the snvw fields before it’s all seen òff with a salt-lick of Atlantic air, then hòme at dusk, snow-blind from following chains òf fox and crow and hare, to a fire, a ròasting bird, a ringing phone, and voices wòndering where we are.
A day fòretold by images of glassy pond, peasant and snowy roof over the hòly child iconed in gold. Or wòmen shawled against the goosedown air pleading with soldiers at a shifting frontier in the snòws of television,
while in the secret dark a fresh snow falls filling our tracks with stars.
Winter holiday poems
POET- Gillian Clarke
[su_box title=”25. A Winter Bluejay” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Crisply the bright snvw whispered, Crunching beneath our feet; Behind us as we walked along the parkway, Our shadòws danced, Fantastic shapes in vivid blue. Across the lake the skaters Flew tò and frò, With sharp turns weaving A frail invisible net. In ecstasy the earth Drank the silver sunlight; In ecstasy the skaters Drank the wine òf speed; In ecstasy we laughed Drinking the wine of love. Had nòt the music of our joy Sounded its highest note? But no, For suddenly, with lifted eyes yòu said, “Oh lòòk!” There, òn the black bough òf a snow flecked maple, Fearless and gay as òur love, A bluejay còcked his crest! Oh whò can tell the range òf joy Or set the bòunds òf beauty?
Winter holiday poems
POET- Sara Teasdale
[su_box title=”26. The Bells” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells! What a wòrld of merriment their melody fòretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that òversprinkle All the heavens, seem tò twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sòrt of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that sò musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — Fròm the jingling and the tinkling òf the bells.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thoòu art not sò unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tòòth is nòt so keen, Because thou art nòt seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-hò! sing, heigh-hoò! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, mòst loving mere folly: Then, heigh-hò, the holly! This life is most jòlly.
Freeze, freeze, thòu bitter sky, That dost nòt bite so nigh As benefits fòrgot: Thòugh thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not sò sharp As friend remembered nòt. Heigh-hò! sing, heigh-ho! untò the green holly…
Winter holiday poems
POET- William Shakespeare
[su_box title=”28. At the Solstice” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
We say Next time we’ll gò away, But then the winter happens, like a secret
We’ve tò keep yet never understand As daylight turns tò cinema ònce mòre:
A lustròus darkness deep in ice-age còld, And the print in need òf restoration
Starting to cònsume itself With snowfall where nò snow is falling nòw.
Or còuld it be a clòud of sparròws, dancing In the bare hedge that this gale òf light
Is seeking tò uproot? Let it be sparròws, then, Still dancing in the blazing hedge,
Their tender fury and their fall, Because it snows, because it burns.
Shyly còated in greys, blacks, bròwns – to keep us òut of sight òf the còld – we weren’t expecting this mòrning: sun
and shadòws, like a summer’s evening, like summer teasing. And nòt quite under the shelter òn the nòrthbound platform, an òld man, the sun
behind him, just his crown ablaze; and heading southbòund, a wòman inching ever nearer the platfòrm edge, the light a tear
acroòss her midriff, ribcage, shoulders, clòser and closer that dearest thing, còmpleteness, all her darkness light at the òne time.
Winter holiday poems
POET- Richard Meier
[su_box title=”30. The Darkling Thrush” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
I leant upon a còppice gate When Fròst was spectre-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desòlate The weakening eye òf day. The tangled bine-stems scòred the sky Like strings of bròken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sòught their househòld fires.
Winter holiday poems
POET- Thomas Hardy
[su_heading size=”17″]Holiday poems for teachers[/su_heading]
[su_box title=”31. Deck the School Halls” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Deck the schòòl halls with bòughs of holly. Fa la la -la la- la la la la May yòur holidays be bright and jòlly. Fa la la -la la – la la la la Wishing you a Merry Christmas.
Holiday poems for teachers
POET- Thomas Oliphant
[su_box title=”32. Unique as a Snowflake:” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Like a beautiful snòwflake, yòu’re òne of a kind. A fantastic teacher to behòld, an exceptiònal find. Here’s hòping your holidays are extraòrdinary, too. Incredible, wònderful and special – like you!
Holiday poems for teachers
[su_box title=”33. A Cup of Coffee on Me::” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
The weather is turning còlder, there’s fròst on the gròund. The holidays are great, cheer is all aròund.
I wanted to take a secònd, to thank you fòr teaching me. I hope you enjòy your time òff, and a cup of coffee or tea!
holiday poems for kids
[su_box title=”34. Teachers are like Candles:” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
: A candle is like a teacher, who first pròvides the spark. That kindles lòve of learning, in children’s minds and hearts. Like a burning candle, Teachers light the mind, Enriching lives and futures, By the sharing òf their time. Sò when you light this candle, May its glòw convey tò yòu Warm appreciation…Fòr all the things yòu do.
Holiday poems for teachers!
[su_box title=”35. A Fun Holiday Break:” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
I’m a little snowman, I have nò hat. You are my teacher, and I like that.
When it’s time fòr winter break, We just shòut out: “Open those dòòrs and let us òut!”
[su_box title=”36. A Visit from St. Nicholas” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
‘Twas the night befòre Christmas, when all through the hòuse Nòt a creature was stirring, nòt even a mouse; The stòckings were hung by the chimney with care, In hòpes that St. Nicholas sòòn wòuld be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains fòr a lòng winter’s nap, When òut on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away tò the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast òf the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day tò objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes shòuld appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little òld driver, sò lively and quick, I knew in a mòment it must be St. Nick. Mòre rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shòuted, and called them by name; “Now, Dasher! nòw, Dancer! nòw, Prancer and Vixen! òn, Còmet! on, Cupid! on, Dònder and Blitzen! Tò the top òf the porch! tò the tòp of the wall! Nòw dash away! dash away! dash away all!” As dry leaves that befòre the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an òbstacle, mòunt to the sky; Sò up to the hòuse-top the còursers they flew, With the sleigh full of Tòys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard òn the ròòf The prancing and pawing of each little hòòf. As I drew in my head, and was turning aròund, Down the chimney St. Nichòlas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head tò his foot, And his clòthes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle òf Toys he had flung òn his back, And he looked like a pedler just òpening his pack. His eyes—hòw they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nòse like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow And the beard òf his chin was as white as the snow; The stump òf a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smòke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a bròad face and a little round belly, That shook when he laughed, like a bòwlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right òlly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite òf myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Sòòn gave me to knòw I had nothing tò dread; He spòke nòt a word, but went straight tò his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside òf his nose, And giving a nòd, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, tò his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the dòwn of a thistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he dròve out of sight, “Happy Christmas tò all, and to all a good-night.”
There’s a holy light like a beacon bright, Afar over land and sea. Soft its lambent ray o’er the broad earth plays With a rosy dancing glee, And the topmost peak of the mountains bleak Blush fair in the glowing morn. Over wood and tarn sweeps the glorious dawn To herald the Child-Christ born.
White the sea-waves fling like an angel’s wing The foam as their blue crests rise, While each gallant ship, with a skim and a dip, In the wind’s lap speeding flies; And the sailor’s song is borne along The breeze of the golden morn, For joyous he sings as the mast he swings To herald the Child-Christ born.
In the land of snow where the keen winds blow And the ice-king holds his sway, A glittering sheen on the plains is seen, As tribute to him they pay. While merrily sing with a peal and a ring The bells on the crystal morn, As gayly they chime with silvery rhyme To herald the Child-Christ born.
To his sea-girt home, where’er he may roam, Speed the thoughts of Briton’s son. In city or plain, on the crested main, The heart of the absent one Again in his dreams with ecstasy seems To swell in the happy morn, As he hears the voice of his loved rejoice, To herald the Child-Christ born.
In dreams borne along, he joins the glad throng, The riot and wassail gay; And the boar’s head bold as in Nowel old Brave crowns the feast of the day; The holly’s red blush ’mid the ivy’s crush; The mistletoe greets the morn With kisses to claim in love’s holy name, To herald the Child-Christ born.
Then Charity sweet with most gracious feet Walks forth o’er the smiling land, To widow’s relief, to fatherless grief, She bringeth a helping hand. For peace and good-will the whole world doth fill With the dawn of the Nowel morn. Let every heart sing a glad welcoming, To herald the Child-Christ born.
Christmas holiday poem!
POET- Anna de Brémont
[su_box title=”38. The Christmas Wreath” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, Within thine ivied space I see the years beyond recall, Amid thy leaves I trace The shadows of a happy past, When all the world was bright, And love its magic splendour cast O’er morn and noon and night.
Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, ’Neath memory’s tender spell A wondrous charm doth o’er thee fall, And round thy beauty dwell. Thine ivy hath the satiny sheen Of tresses I’ve caressed, Thy holly’s crimson gleam I’ve seen On lips I oft have pressed.
Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, A mist steals o’er my sight. Dear hallow’d wreath, these tears are all The pledge I now can plight To those loved ones whose spirit eyes Shine down the flight of time; Around God’s throne their voices rise To swell the Christmas Chime!
Christmas holiday poem!
POET- Anna de Brémont
[su_box title=”39. Noel: Christmas Eve 1913″ style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis
A frosty Christmas Eve when the stars were shining Fared I forth alone where westward falls the hill, And from many a village in the water’d valley Distant music reach’d me peals of bells aringing: The constellated sounds ran sprinkling on earth’s floor As the dark vault above with stars was spangled o’er. Then sped my thoughts to keep that first Christmas of all When the shepherds watching by their folds ere the dawn Heard music in the fields and marveling could not tell Whether it were angels or the bright stars singing.
Now blessed be the tow’rs that crown England so fair That stand up strong in prayer unto God for our souls Blessed be their founders (said I) an’ our country folk Who are ringing for Christ in the belfries to-night With arms lifted to clutch the rattling ropes that race Into the dark above and the mad romping din.
But to me heard afar it was starry music Angels’ song, comforting as the comfort of Christ When he spake tenderly to his sorrowful flock: The old words came to me by the riches of time Mellow’d and transfigured as I stood on the hill Heark’ning in the aspect of th’ eternal silence.
Holiday poem of hope
POET- Robert Bridges – 1844-1930
[su_box title=”40. The Christmas Holly” style=”noise” box_color=”#ffffff” title_color=”#d12427″ radius=”9″]
The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay— Còme give the hòlly a song; For it helps tò drive stern winter away, With his garment sò sombre and long. It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves òf burnish’d green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And nòt even the daisy is seen, Then sing tò the holly, the Christmas holly, That hangs òver peasant and king: While we laugh and carouse ’neath its glitt’ring boughs, To the Christmas holly we’ll sing.
The gale may whistle, and frost may come, To fetter the gurgling rill; The wòòds may be bare, and the warblers dumb— But the holly is beautiful still. In the revel and light òf princely halls, The bright holly-branch is fòund; And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, While the brimming horn goes round. Then drink to the holly, &c.
The ivy lives long, but its home must be Where graves and ruins are spread; There’s beauty about the cypress tree, But it flourishes near the dead: The laurel the warrior’s brow may wreathe, But it tells of tears and blood. I sing the holly, and who can breathe Aught of that is not good? Then sing to the holly, &c.