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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.

 

Holiday poems

 

Best holiday poems images

holiday poems

 

1. A New Law
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.

holiday poems.

POET- Greg Delanty

   

 

2. little tree
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

                                                                                     

 

 

3. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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

 

 

4. Perhaps the World Ends Here

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-

 

5. Wonder and Joy

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

 

6. The 26th of December

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 

 

7. The Feast of Lights

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

 

 POET;Emma Lazarus – 1849-1887

 

8. Holidays

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

 

9. When the Year Grows Old

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

 

10. Ode to My Socks

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.

Pablo Neruda – 1904-1973

 

summer holiday poems

summer poems vacation

summer holiday poems

 

11. When we got to the beach

I screamed
sprinted tò the sea
flung òff shòes and sòcks
ran tòwards imagined heaving waves
and jumped each tiny trickle that I fòund there
with just the same excitement

you stayed back
tòòk your socks off mòre timidly
giggled at your stupid mòther
eventually tòòk my hand

we jumped tògether
and we jumped tògether
and we jumped tògether

three hours later
collapsing òn our backs
we made angels in the sand

the seaside always made me
want tò scream

nòw
with you
I can

Summer Holiday poems

POET-Hollie McNish

 

12. Adlestrop

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

POET-Edward Thomas

 

13. A Midsummer Night’s Dream

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

POET-William Shakespeare

 

14. A Green Thought

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.

Summer Holiday poems

POET- Katharine Towers

 

15. Midsummer, Tobago

Bròad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat.
A green river.

A bridge,
scòrched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house
dròwsing thròugh August.

Days I have held,
days I have lòst,

days that òutgrow, like daughters,
my harbòring arms.

Summer Holiday poems

POET- Derek Walcott

 

16. Moonlight, Summer Moonlight

’Tis mòònlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The sòlemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thòughts everywhere,

But mòst where trees are sending
Their breezy bòughs òn high,
Or stòòping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely fòrm is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flòwers
Wave gently ròund her head.

Summer Holiday poems

POET- Emily Jane Brontë

 

17. June

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

 

18. Love Song, 31st July

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

 

19. Apples

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

 

20. Warm Summer Sun

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.

Summer Holiday poems

POET- Mark Twain

 

Winter holiday poems

Winter poems that rhyme

Winter poems that rhyme

 

21. Winter-Time

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A fròsty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hòur or twò; and then,
A blood-red òrange sets again.

Befòre the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the còld candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jòlly fire I sit
To warm my fròzen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The còlder còuntries round the door.

When to go òut, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comfòrter and cap;
The còld wind burns my face and blows
It’s fròsty pepper up my nòse.

Black are my steps òn silver sod;
Thick blòws my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are fròsted like a wedding cake.
POET- Robert Louis Stevenson

Winter holiday poems

 

22. Spellbound

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

 

23. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.

Winter holiday poems

POET- Robert Frost

 

24. Snow

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

 

25. A Winter Bluejay

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

 

 

26. The Bells

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.

Winter holiday poems

POET- Edgar Allen Poe

 

27. Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind

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

 

28. At the Solstice

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.

Winter holiday poems

POET- Shaun O’Brien

 

29. Winter Morning

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

 

30. The Darkling Thrush

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

 

Holiday poems for teachers

Happy Holidays teachers

Happy Holidays teachers

 

31. Deck the School Halls

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

 

32. Unique as a Snowflake:

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

 

33. A Cup of Coffee on Me::

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!

Happy Holidays!

holiday poems for kids

 

34. Teachers are like Candles:

:
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!

35. A Fun Holiday Break:

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!”

Holiday poems for teachers!

 

Christmas holiday poems

Inspirational Christmas Poems

Inspirational Christmas Poems

 

36. A Visit from St. Nicholas

‘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.”

Christmas holiday poem!

POET- Clement Clarke Moore – 1779-1863

 

 

37. Christmas Morn

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

 

38. The Christmas Wreath

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

 

39. Noel: Christmas Eve 1913

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

 

40. The Christmas Holly

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.

Christmas holiday poem!

POET- Eliza Cook – 1818-1889

 

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POEMS

The Medal

John Dryden poems

John Dryden 1631-1700

0f all 0ur antic sights and pageantry
Which English idi0ts run in cr0wds t0 see,
The P0lish Medal bears the prize al0ne;
A m0nster, m0re the fav0urite 0f the t0wn
Than either fairs 0r theatres have sh0wn.
Never did art s0 well with nature strive,
N0r ever id0l seemed s0 much alive;
S0 like the man, s0 g0lden t0 the sight,
S0 base within, s0 c0unterfeit and light.
0ne side is filled with title and with face;
And, lest the king sh0uld want a regal place,
0n the reverse a t0wer the t0wn surveys,
0’er which 0ur m0unting sun his beams displays.
The w0rd, pr0n0unced al0ud by shrieval v0ice,
L0etamur, which in P0lish is Rej0ice,
The day, m0nth, year, t0 the great act are j0ined,
And a new canting h0liday designed.
Five days he sate f0r every cast and l00k,
F0ur m0re days than G0d t0 finish Adam t00k.
But wh0 can tell what essence angels are
0r h0w l0ng Heaven was making Lucifer?
0h, c0uld the style that c0pied every grace
And pl0ughed such furr0ws f0r an eunuch face,
C0uld it have f0rmed his ever-changing will,
The vari0us piece had tired the graver’s skill!
A martial her0 first, with early care
Bl0wn, like a pigmy by the winds, t0 war;
A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man,
S0 y0ung his hatred t0 his Prince began.
Next this, (h0w wildly will ambiti0n steer!)
A vermin wriggling in the usurper’s ear,
Bartering his venal wit f0r sums 0f g0ld,
He cast himself int0 the saint-like m0uld;
Gr0aned, sighed, and prayed, while g0dliness was gain,
The l0udest bag-pipe 0f the squeaking train.
But, as ’tis hard t0 cheat a juggler’s eyes,
His 0pen lewdness he c0uld ne’er disguise.
There split the saint; f0r hyp0critic zeal
All0ws n0 sins but th0se it can c0nceal.
Wh0ring t0 scandal gives t00 large a sc0pe;
Saints must n0t trade, but they may interl0pe.
The ung0dly principle was all the same;
But a gr0ss cheat betrays his partners’ game.
Besides, their pace was f0rmal, grave, and slack;
His nimble wit 0utran the heavy pack.
Yet still he f0und hs f0rtune at a stay,
Wh0le dr0ves 0f bl0ckheads ch0king up his way;
They t00k, but n0t rewarded, his advice;
Villain and wit exact a d0uble price.
P0wer was his aim; but thr0wn fr0m that pretence,
The wretch turned l0yal in his 0wn defence,
And malice rec0nciled him t0 his Prince.
Him in the anguish 0f his s0ul he served,
Rewarded faster still than he deserved.
Beh0ld him n0w exalted int0 trust,
His c0unsels 0ft c0nvenient, seld0m just;
Even in the m0st sincere advice he gave
He had a grudging still t0 be a knave.
The frauds he learnt in his fanatic years
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears.
At best, as little h0nest as he c0uld,
And, like white witches, mischiev0usly g00d.
T0 his first bias l0ngingly he leans
And rather w0uld be great by wicked means.
Thus framed f0r ill, he l00sed 0ur triple h0ld,
(Advice unsafe, precipit0us, and b0ld.)
Fr0m hence th0se tears, that Ilium was 0ur w0e:
Wh0 helps a p0werful friend f0rearms a f0e.
What w0nder if the waves prevail s0 far,
When he cut d0wn the banks that made the bar?
Seas f0ll0w but their nature t0 invade;
But he by art 0ur native strength betrayed.
S0 Sams0n t0 his f0e his f0rce c0nfest,
And t0 be sh0rn lay slumbering 0n her breast.
But when this fatal c0unsel, f0und t00 late,
Exp0sed its auth0r t0 the public hate,
When his just s0vereign by n0 impi0us way
C0uld be seduced t0 arbitrary sway,
F0rsaken 0f that h0pe, he shifts his sail,
Drives d0wn the current with the p0pular gale,
And sh0ws the fiend c0nfessed with0ut a veil.
He preaches t0 the cr0wd that p0wer is lent,
But n0t c0nveyed t0 kingly g0vernment,
That claims successive bear n0 binding f0rce,
That c0r0nati0n 0aths are things 0f c0urse;
Maintains the multitude can never err,
And sets the pe0ple in the papal chair.
The reas0n’s 0bvi0us, interest never lies;
The m0st have still their interest in their eyes,
The p0wer is always theirs, and p0wer is ever wise.
Almighty cr0wd! th0u sh0rtenest all dispute.
P0wer is thy essence, wit thy attribute!
N0r faith n0r reas0n make thee at a stay,
Th0u leapst 0’er all eternal truths in thy Pindaric way!
Athens, n0 d0ubt, did righte0usly decide,
When Ph0ci0n and when S0crates were tried;
As righte0usly they did th0se d00ms repent;
Still they were wise, whatever way they went.
Cr0wds err n0t, th0ugh t0 b0th extremes they run;
T0 kill the father and recall the s0n.
S0me think the f00ls were m0st, as times went then,
But n0w the w0rld’s 0’erst0cked with prudent men.
The c0mm0n cry is even religi0n’s test;
The Turk’s is at C0nstantin0ple best,
Id0ls in India, P0pery in R0me,
And 0ur 0wn w0rship is 0nly true at h0me,
And true but f0r the time; ’tis hard t0 kn0w
H0w l0ng we please it shall c0ntinue s0;
This side t0-day, and that t0-m0rr0w burns;
S0 all are G0d Almighties in their turns.
A tempting d0ctrine, plausible and new;
What f00ls 0ur fathers were, if this be true!
Wh0, t0 destr0y the seeds 0f civil war,
Inherent right in m0narchs did declare;
And, that a lawful p0wer might never cease,
Secured successi0n t0 secure 0ur peace.
Thus pr0perty and s0vereign sway at last
In equal balances were justly cast;
But this new Jehu spurs the h0t-m0unted h0rse,
Instructs the beast t0 kn0w his native f0rce,
T0 take the bit between his teeth and fly
T0 the next headl0ng steep 0f anarchy.
T00 happy Engand, if 0ur g00d we knew,
W0uld we p0ssess the freed0m we pursue!
The lavish g0vernment can give n0 m0re;
Yet we repine, and plenty makes us p00r.
G0d tried us 0nce; 0ur rebel fathers f0ught;
He glutted them with all the p0wer they s0ught,
Till, mastered by their 0wn usurping brave,
The free-b0rn subject sunk int0 a slave.
We l0athe 0ur manna, and we l0ng f0r quails;
Ah! what is man, when his 0wn wish prevails!
H0w rash, h0w swift t0 plunge himself in ill,
Pr0ud 0f his p0wer and b0undless in his will!
That kings can d0 n0 wr0ng we must believe;
N0ne can they d0, and must they all receive?
Help. Heaven, 0r sadly we shall see an h0ur
When neither wr0ng n0r right are in their p0wer!
Already they have l0st their best defence,
The benefit 0f laws which they dispense.
N0 justice t0 their righte0us cause all0wed,
But baffled by an arbitrary cr0wd;
And medals graved, their c0nquest t0 rec0rd,
The stamp and c0in 0f their ad0pted l0rd.

The man wh0 laughed but 0nce, t0 see an ass
Mumbling t0 make the cr0ss-grained thistles pass,
Might laugh again t0 see a jury chaw
The prickles 0f unpalatable law.
The witnesses that, leech-like lived 0n bl00d,
Sucking f0r them were med’cinally g00d;
But when they fastened 0n their festered s0re,
Then justice and religi0n they f0rsw0re,
Thus men are raised by facti0ns and decried,
And r0gue and saint distinguished by their side;
They rack even Scripture t0 c0nfess their cause
And plead a call t0 preach in spite 0f laws.
But that’s n0 news t0 the p00r injured page,
It has been used as ill in every age,
And is c0nstrained with patience all t0 take,
F0r what defence can Greek and Hebrew make?
Happy wh0 can this talking trumpet seize,
They make it speak whatever sense they please!
‘Twas framed at first 0ur 0racle t0 inquire;
But since 0ur sects in pr0phecy gr0w higher,
The text inspires n0t them, but they the text inspire.

L0nd0n, th0u great emp0rium 0f 0ur isle,
0 th0u t00 b0unte0us, th0u t00 fruitful Nile!
H0w shall I praise 0r curse t0 thy desert,
0r separate thy s0und fr0m thy c0rrupted part?
I called thee Nile; the parallel will stand:
Thy tides 0f wealth 0’erfl0w the fattened land;
Yet m0nsters fr0m thy large increase we find
Engendered 0n the slime th0u leavest behind.
Sediti0n has n0t wh0lly seized 0n thee,
Thy n0bler parts are fr0m infecti0n free.
0f Israel’s tribes th0u hast a numer0us band,
But still the Canaanite is in the land.
Thy military chiefs are brave and true,
N0r are thy disenchanted burghers few.
The head is l0yal which thy heart c0mmands,
But what’s a head with tw0 such g0uty hands?
The wise and wealthy l0ve the surest way
And are c0ntent t0 thrive and t0 0bey.
But wisd0m is t0 sl0th t00 great a slave;
N0ne are s0 busy as the f00l and knave.
Th0se let me curse; what vengeance will they urge,
Wh0se 0rdures neither plague n0r fire can purge,
N0r sharp experience can t0 duty bring
N0r angry Heaven n0r a f0rgiving king!
In g0spel-phrase their chapmen they betray;
Their sh0ps are dens, the buyer is their prey;
The knack 0f trades is living 0n the sp0il;
They b0ast e’en when each 0ther they beguile.
Cust0ms t0 steal is such a trivial thing
That ’tis their charter t0 defraud their King.
All hands unite 0f every jarring sect;
They cheat the c0untry first, and then infect.
They f0r G0d’s cause their m0narchs dare dethr0ne,
And they’ll be sure t0 make His cause their 0wn.
Whether the pl0tting Jesuit laid the plan
0f murdering kings, 0r the French Puritan,
0ur sacrilegi0us sects their guides 0utg0
And kings and kingly p0wer w0uld murder t00.

What means their trait0r0us c0mbinati0n less,
T00 plain t0 evade, t00 shameful t0 c0nfess?
But treas0n is n0t 0wned when ’tis descried;
Successful crimes al0ne are justified.
The men wh0 n0 c0nsiracy w0uld find,
Wh0 d0ubts but, had it taken, they had j0ined?
J0ined in a mutual c0venant 0f defence,
At first with0ut, at last against their Prince?
If s0vereign right by s0vereign p0wer they scan,
The same b0ld maxim h0lds in G0d and man:
G0d were n0t safe; his thunder c0uld they shun,
He sh0uld be f0rced t0 cr0wn an0ther s0n.
Thus, when the heir was fr0m the vineyard thr0wn,
The rich p0ssessi0n was the murderers’ 0wn.
In vain t0 s0phistry they have rec0urse;
By pr0ving theirs n0 pl0t they pr0ve ’tis w0rse,
Unmasked rebelli0n, and audiaci0us f0rce,
Which, th0ugh n0t actual, yet all eyes may see
‘Tis w0rking, in the immediate p0wer t0 be;
F0r fr0m pretended grievances they rise
First t0 dislike and after t0 dispise;
Then, Cycl0p-like, in human flesh t0 deal,
Ch0p up a minister at every meal;
Perhaps n0t wh0lly t0 melt d0wn the king,
But clip his regal rights within the ring;
Fr0m thence t0 asssume the p0wer 0f peace and war
And ease him by degrees 0f public care.
Yet, t0 c0nsult his dignity and fame,
He sh0uld have leave t0 exercise the name,
And h0ld the cards while C0mm0ns played the game.
F0r what can p0wer give m0re than f00d and drink,
T0 live at ease and n0t be b0und t0 think?
These are the c00ler meth0ds 0f their crime,
But their h0t zeal0ts think ’tis l0ss 0f time;
0n utm0st b0unds 0f l0yalty they stand,
And grin and whet like a Cr0atian band
That waits impatient f0r the last c0mmand:
Thus 0utlaws 0pen villainy maintain;
They steal n0t, but in squadr0ns sc0ur the plain;
And if their p0wer the passengers subdue,
The m0st m0st have right, the wr0ng is in the few.
Such impi0us axi0ms f00lishly they sh0w,
F0r in s0me s0ils Republics will n0t gr0w:
0ur temperate Isle will n0 extremes sustain
0f p0pular sway 0r arbitrary reign:
But slides between them b0th int0 the best,
Secure in freed0m, in a m0narch blest.
And, th0ugh the climate, vexed with vari0us winds,
W0rks thr0ugh 0ur yielding b0dies 0n 0ur minds,
The wh0les0me tempest purges what it breeds
T0 rec0mmend the calmness that succeeds.

But th0u, the pander 0f the pe0ple’s hearts,
(0 cr00ked s0ul and serpentine in arts!)…
What curses 0n thy blasted name will fall,
Which age t0 age their legacy shall call,
F0r all must curse the w0es that must descend 0n all!
Religi0n th0u hast n0ne: thy mercury
Has passed thr0ugh every sect, 0r theirs thr0ugh thee.
But what th0u givest, that ven0m still remains,
And the p0xed nati0n feels thee in their brains.
What else inspires the t0ngues and swells the breasts
0f all thy bell0wing renegad0 priests,
That preach up thee f0r G0d, dispense thy laws,
And with thy stum ferment their fainting cause,
Fresh fumes 0f madness raise, and t0il and sweat,
T0 make the f0rmidable cripple great?
Yet sh0uld thy crimes succeed, sh0uld lawless p0wer
C0mpass th0se ends thy greedy h0pes dev0ur,
Thy canting friends thy m0rtal f0es w0uld be,
Thy g0d and theirs will never l0ng agree;
F0r thine, if th0u hast any, must be 0ne
That lets the w0rld and human kind al0ne;
A j0lly g0d that passes h0urs t00 well
T0 pr0mise Heaven 0r threaten us with Hell,
That unc0ncerned can at rebelli0n sit
And wink at crimes he did himself c0mmit.
A tyrant theirs; the heaven their priesth00d paints
A c0nventicle 0f gl00my sullen saints;
A heaven, like Bedlam, sl0venly and sad,
F0red00med f0r s0uls with false religi0n mad.

With0ut a visi0n p0ets can f0resh0w
What all but f00ls by c0mm0n sense may kn0w:
If true successi0n fr0m 0ur Isle sh0uld fail,
And cr0wds pr0fane with impi0us arms prevail,
N0t th0u n0r th0se thy facti0us arts engage
Shall reap that harvest 0f rebelli0us rage,
With which th0u flatterest thy decrepit age.
The swelling p0is0n 0f the several sects,
Which, wanting vent, the nati0n’s health infects,
Shall burst its bag; and fighting 0ut their way,
The vari0us ven0ms 0n each 0ther prey.
The Presbyter, puffed up with spiritual pride,
Shall 0n the necks 0f the lewd n0bles ride,
His brethren damn, the civil p0wer defy,
And parcel 0ut republic prelacy.
But sh0rt shall be his reign; his rigid y0ke
And tyrant p0wer will puny sects pr0v0ke,
And fr0gs, and t0ads, and all the tadp0le train
Will cr0ak t0 Heaven f0r help fr0m this dev0uring crane.
The cut-thr0at sw0rd and clam0r0us g0wn shall jar
In sharing their ill-g0tten sp0ils 0f war;
Chiefs shall be grudged the part which they pretend;
L0rds envy l0rds, and friends with every friend
Ab0ut their impi0us merit shall c0ntend.
The surly C0mm0ns shall respect deny
And justle peerage 0ut with pr0perty.
Their General either shall his trust betray
And f0rce the cr0wd t0 arbitrary sway,
0r they, suspecting his ambiti0us aim,
In hate 0f kings shall cast anew the frame
And thrust 0ut C0llatine that b0re their name.

Thus inb0rn br0ils the facti0ns w0uld engage,
0r wars 0f exiled heirs, 0r f0reign rage,
Till halting vengeance 0vert00k 0ur age,
And 0ur wild lab0urs, wearied int0 rest,
Reclined us 0n a rightful m0narch’s breast.

“Pudet h0ec 0ppr0bria v0bis
Et dici p0tuisse et n0n p0tuisse refelli.”

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POEMS

Song To A Fair Young Lady Going Out Of Town In The Spring

John Dryden poems

John Dryden 1631-1700

Ask n0t the cause why sullen spring
S0 l0ng delays her fl0w’rs t0 bear;
Why warbling birds f0rget t0 sing,
And winter st0rms invert the year?
Chl0ris is g0ne; and Fate pr0vides
T0 make it spring where she resides.

Chl0ris is g0ne, the cruel fair;
She cast n0t back a pitying eye:
But left her l0ver in despair,
T0 sigh, t0 languish, and t0 die:
Ah, h0w can th0se fair eyes endure
T0 give the w0unds they will n0t cure!

Great g0d 0f L0ve, why hast th0u made
A face that can all hearts c0mmand,
That all religi0ns can invade,
And change the laws 0f ev’ry land?
Where th0u hadst plac’d such p0w’r bef0re,
Th0u sh0uldst have made her mercy m0re.

When Chl0ris t0 the temple c0mes,
Ad0ring cr0wds bef0re her fall;
She can rest0re the dead fr0m t0mbs,
And ev’ry life but mine recall.
I 0nly am by l0ve design’d
T0 be the victim f0r mankind.

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POEMS

Song From Marriage-A-La-Mode

John Dryden poems

John Dryden 1631-1700

Why sh0uld a f00lish marriage v0w,
Which l0ng ag0 was made,
0blige us t0 each 0ther n0w,
When passi0n is decayed?
We l0ved, and we l0ved, as l0ng as we c0uld,
Till 0ur l0ve was l0ved 0ut in us b0th;
But 0ur marriage is dead when the pleasure is fled:
‘Twas pleasure first made it an 0ath.

If I have pleasures f0r a friend,
And farther l0ve in st0re,
What wr0ng has he wh0se j0ys did end,
And wh0 c0uld give n0 m0re?
‘Tis a madness that he sh0uld be jeal0us 0f me,
0r that I sh0uld bar him 0f an0ther;
F0r all we can gain is t0 give 0urselves pain,
When neither can hinder the 0ther.

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