POEMS
Walt Whitman Poems | Walton Poems About Love & Nature |
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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 By Walt Whitman
31. America |
POEMS
30+ Famous John Dryden Poems & Songs | Short John Poetry |
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
Personal Life
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
POEMS
65 + Poems About life & Life Journey Experiences By Famous Poet
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
“Octavio Paz 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.
I don’t mēan to makē you cry. Thē tēars clouding your ēyēs as thē tablē fills Hunt all you want. Bēnēath ēach skin of minē Look at you, chopping and wēēping. Idiot. Of lasting union–slashing away skin aftēr skin You must not griēvē that thē world is glimpsēd That you arē, you who want to grasp thē hēart Yēllow pēēls, my stinging shrēds. You arē thē onē Your soul cut momēnt to momēnt by a bladē Not onē. Poor fool, you arē dividēd at thē hēart, Poems About life
Suji Kwock Kim
I mēan nothing, but this has not kēpt you
From pēēling away my body, layēr by layēr,
With husks, cut flēsh, all thē dēbris of pursuit.
Poor dēludēd human: you sēēk my hēart.
Liēs anothēr skin: I am purē onion–purē union
Of outsidē and in, surfacē and sēcrēt corē.
Is this thē way you go through lifē, your mind
A stoplēss knifē, drivēn by your fantasy of truth,
From things, ruin and tēars your only signs
Of progrēss? ēnough is ēnough.
Through vēils. How ēlsē can it bē sēēn?
How will you rip away thē vēil of thē ēyē, thē vēil
Of things, hungry to know whērē mēaning
Liēs. Tastē what you hold in your hands: onion-juicē,
In piēcēs. Whatēvēr you mēant to lovē, in mēaning to
You changēd yoursēlf: you arē not who you arē,
Of frēsh dēsirē, thē ground sown with abandonēd skins.
And at your inmost circlē, what? A corē that is
Lost in its mazē of chambērs, blood, and lovē,
A hēart that will onē day bēat you to dēath.
poem about life lessons
Beautiful poems about life
Rabindranath Tagorē Thē samē strēam of lifē that runs through my vēins night and day It is thē samē lifē that shoots in joy through thē dust of thē ēarth It is thē samē lifē that is rockēd in thē ocēan-cradlē of birth I fēēl my limbs arē madē glorious by thē touch of this world of lifē.
runs through thē world and dancēs in rhythmic mēasurēs.
in numbērlēss bladēs of grass
and brēaks into tumultuous wavēs of lēavēs and flowērs.
and of dēath, in ēbb and in flow.
And my pridē is from thē lifē-throb of agēs dancing in my blood this momēnt.
Lifē Is A Tall, Tēndēr Trēē For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē, For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē, For if lifē is a tall tēndēr trēē,
Dr. Dēbasish Mridha
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.
Thērē is no pain or gain, shē or hē.
No complaining, only sērving and caring.
Crēating lifē for joy of sharing.
For thēn, thērē arē no you and mē.
Wē arē naturē; wē arē lovē; wē arē bēauty.
Giving and loving is our ētērnal duty.
Pausē hērē at thē flowēr stand—mums dark as my hēart. Wē arē ēngagēd any distraction I can carry. Tonight that will takē thēir brēath away. Still, somētimēs, you could chokē mē. ēxcēpt by somē brilliant dēfēnsē. I want I want thē flamē throwērs: thē pēoniēs, and lēt thēir nēctarēd swēētnēss blēēd I’d hopēd it could bē. It is horriblē, our arsēnal. You taught mē dēvastation of shrapnēl. Our bombs showēr is to assurē damagē will bē widēly distributēd. Whēn you touch mē I am a stalk of grēēn panic of thēsē sprigs of blossoming hēartbrēak I can afford in chaotic buds of flamē. This is thē world wē havē Poems About life
Camillē T. Dungy – 1972-
and gladiolas, purplē carnations
in a war, and I want to drag homē
childrēn will wakē to bouquēts of firē
I think of my lifē. Thē way you hold mē,
Thērē is no way to protēct mysēlf,
thē black iris with thēir sabērēd blooms.
thē sunflowērs. I will cut down thē bēautiful onēs
into thē carēlēss air. This is not thē world
thē way wē carry on. Last night, you cataloguēd
is a goal wē announcē in a cēlēbration
in anticipation of thēir marks. You said this
What gruēsomē gēnius invēnts our brutal hēarts?
and dēsirē. Wait hērē whilē I dēcidē which
to bring into my homē. Tonight drēams will ērupt
arrangēd. It is horriblē, this way wē carry on.
“Thē Small Claim of Bonēs” what my body knows
Cindy Williams Gutiérrez
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
Jane Hirshfield – 1953- My lifē was thē sizē of my lifē. —2012 Poems About life
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
if thē body is just a parablē
Kaveh Akbar
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
poem about life
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
Khalil Gibran
Poems about life struggles
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.
Life has its shad0ws, as well as its sun; F0r the l0nger I l00k 0n the bright side 0f earth, Yet life has its shad0w, as well as its sun; Poems About life
Poet: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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.
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.
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.
Poet Catherine Pulsifer, ©2020 There are days that truly bring us d0wn But running away d0esn’t take away the pain Rather than sitting and feeling sad Y0u see life is full 0f struggles and hurt It may n0t be easy t0 get back 0n y0ur feet S0 even th0ugh the struggles y0u face The day will c0me when g00d times r0ll Poems About life
We sit and m0p and c0nstantly fr0wn
The issues we face right n0w are 0verwhelming
We feel like jumping up and running.
Running away 0nly makes us feel m0re drained
Find that glimmer 0f h0pe
F0cus 0n that it will help y0u c0pe.
Take acti0n d0n’t get mad
Find a way t0 take 0ne step
T0wards the thing called happiness.
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.
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.
D0n’t give in and l0se the pace.
Let y0ur determinati0n sh0w
Even if y0ur pr0gress is sl0w.
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!
A cr0wd 0f tr0ubles passed him by
Poet: Francis J. Allison
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.”
Poet: Harry Birch There’s many a tr0uble There’s many a s0rr0w H0w welc0me the seeming Res0lve t0 be merry, Poems About life
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.
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.
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.
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.
Poet: Edgar A. Guest Ain’t n0 use as I can see If whinin’ brushed the cl0uds away The day I find a man wh0’ll say Poems About life
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.
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.
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.
Poet: Lillian E. Curtis When the w0rld l00ks dark, and the heart beats swift, When the heart is bubbling 0ver with s0rr0w, When 0n the edge 0f despair y0u sit, When the r0ughest st0rms that life may kn0w, Poems About life
0’erc0me with many a piercing dart,
Then bid patience her magic wand up-lift,
And busy the hand t0 still the heart.
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.
Fr0m steadfast Faith apart.
When the lamp 0f C0urage’s n0 l0nger lit,
Busy the hand t0 still the heart.
Cause trembling and fear t0 start,
When tempests 0f strife all hurriedly bl0w,
Busy the hand t0 still the heart.
Poet Julie Hebert, ©2015 It seems t0 me the r0ad called life, Instead we must weigh the 0dds, Alth0ugh life’s r0ad may have many cr0ssr0ads, Y0u are the 0ne wh0 kn0ws Y0u,
Is a windy, bumpy r0ad.
It’s n0t easy like t0ld in fairytales,
Life can’t be changed by kissing a t0ad.
Ab0ut every decisi0n we make.
We w0rry we’ll make the wr0ng ch0ice,
And n0t kn0w which way t0 take.
We just have t0 trust in G0d and instinct.
Life may be a c0nstant questi0n mark,
But if y0u listen y0u may hear y0urself.
And the G0d given gifts that inspire y0u.
N0 matter the fear 0r the c0nflict,
If y0u listen, life will fit like a sh0e.
Tell me n0t, in m0urnful numbers. Life is real! Life is earnest! N0t enj0yment, and n0t s0rr0w, Art is l0ng, and Time is fleeting, In the w0rld’s br0ad field 0f battle, Trust n0 Future, h0we’er pleasant! Lives 0f great men all remind us F00tprints, that perhaps an0ther, Let us, then, be up and d0ing,
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Life is but an empty dream! —
F0r the s0ul is dead that slumbers.
And things are n0t what they seem.
And the grave is n0t its g0al;
Dust th0u art, t0 dust returnest,
Was n0t sp0ken 0f the s0ul!
Is 0ur destined end 0r way;
But t0 act, that each t0-m0rr0w
Find us farther than t0-day.
And 0ur hearts, th0ugh st0ut and brave.
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches t0 the grave.
In the biv0uac 0f Life,
Be n0t like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a her0 in the strife!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, — act in the living Present!
Heart within, and G0d 0verhead!
We can make 0ur lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
F00tprints 0n the sands 0f time;
Sailing 0’er life’s s0lemn main,
A f0rl0rn and shipwrecked br0ther,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
With a heart f0r any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing.
Learn t0 lab0r and t0 wait.
Let me stand still up0n the height 0f life; L0ng was the way, and steep and hard the climb; There is n0 standing still! Even as I pause, I will g0 up then, th0ugh the limbs may tire, Ah, blessed law! f0r rest is tempting sweet,
Poet: Susan Coolidge
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.
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.
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!
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.
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’ ‘Taint n0 use t0 keep a-frettin’ S0me0ne has t0 keep a-smilin’
Poet: Unkn0wn
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.
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.
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.
Author Unknown 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 I’m thankful f0r my disapp0intments, f0r the battles l0st;
poet; Lawrence Hawthorne
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.
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.
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.
Poet: R. N. Livingston There is n0 permanence in s0rr0w – There is n0 reas0n f0r despairing, There is n0 bark bey0nd dispelling – There is n0 grief that dares defiance Poems About life
The weeping eyes s0 blinded n0w by tears
Will see all things with clearer view t0m0rr0w
With strengthened visi0n meet the c0ming years!
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!
All shad0ws fade bef0re the ways 0f light
The part that makes m0st st0ries w0rth the telling
Is 0f the 0verc0ming 0f the night!
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.
Poet: Edmund Vance Cooke Did y0u tackle that tr0uble that came y0ur way Poems About life
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?
Short poems about life and love
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.
Tupac Shakur 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
I ASKED the pr0fess0rs wh0 teach the meaning 0f life t0 tell And I went t0 fam0us executives wh0 b0ss the w0rk 0f They all sh00k their heads and gave me a smile as th0ugh
Carl Sandburg
me what is happiness.
th0usands 0f men.
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.
i shall imagine life is n0t w0rth dying if but th0ugh mankind persuades
Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
(and when)r0ses c0mplain
their beauties are in vain
itself that every weed’s
a r0se r0ses(y0u feel
certain)will 0nly smile
H0pe is the thing with feathers And sweetest in the gale is heard; I’ve heard it in the chillest land, Short poems about life and love
Emily Dickinson
That perches in the s0ul,
And sings the tune with0ut the w0rds,
And never st0ps at all,
And s0re must be the st0rm
That c0uld abash the little bird
That kept s0 many warm.
And 0n the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb 0f me.
0ur deepest fear is n0t that we are inadequate. We ask 0urselves Y0ur playing small We are all meant t0 shine, It’s n0t just in s0me 0f us; And as we let 0ur 0wn light shine,
Marianne Williamson
0ur deepest fear is that we are p0werful bey0nd measure.
It is 0ur light, n0t 0ur darkness
That m0st frightens us.
Wh0 am I t0 be brilliant, g0rge0us, talented, fabul0us?
Actually, wh0 are y0u n0t t0 be?
Y0u are a child 0f G0d.
D0es n0t serve the w0rld.
There’s n0thing enlightened ab0ut shrinking
S0 that 0ther pe0ple w0n’t feel insecure ar0und y0u.
As children d0.
We were b0rn t0 make manifest
The gl0ry 0f G0d that is within us.
It’s in every0ne.
We unc0nsci0usly give 0ther pe0ple permissi0n t0 d0 the same.
As we’re liberated fr0m 0ur 0wn fear,
0ur presence aut0matically liberates 0thers.
H0ld fast t0 dreams
Langston Hughes
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.
I Kn0w n0t whence I came,
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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.
I t00k my P0wer in my Hand— I aimed by Pebble—but Myself
Emily Dickinson
And went against the W0rld—
‘Twas n0t s0 much as David—had—
But I—was twice as b0ld—
Was all the 0ne that fell—
Was it G0liath—was t00 large—
0r was myself—t00 small?
And did y0u get what Short poems about life and love
Raymond Carver
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.
D0 n0t ask y0ur children
William Martin
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.
It’s all I have t0 bring t0day—
Emily Dickinson
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.
Poem About life journey
A happy lot must sure be his–
John Sterling
The lord, not slave, of things–
Who values life by what it is
And not by what it brings.
Simple things are the little things If we stop and look and see
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, © 2020
Such happiness they can bring
From watching a sunrise
To giving a child a simple surprise.
How simple things in life can be
The best and happiest times
During our life journey climb.
Just because struggles come your way We must live life, taking things in stride You see we were given choices to make
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, © 2020
Doesn’t mean it can ruin your day
The good and the bad are a way of life
Don’t get down, move beyond the strife.
Helping each other, stoping any divide
Life is better when we support and love
And that is what’s expected from above.
We are not robots, we are not fake
So if you’re faced with a trial or two
Don’t give up, let others help you through.
Holidays are meant to be No matter what the holiday
Poet: Kate Summers
Happy times for all to see
The time may be a special occasion
Or it may be a two week vacation.
Whether at home or away
Be sure to relax, fun to be had
A time for all to be glad.
WHAT is this life if, full of care, No time to see, when woods we pass, No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, A poor life this if, full of care,
Poet: W. H. Davies
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
We have no time to stand and stare.
My previous life when I heard the term Letting go of space But the benefits to me So now when I hear the term
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, © 2015
downsizing meant a turn for worse
But now we are talking not about a job
We are talking about a smaller home
Letting go of material things
Less room
Will this be doom?
Less housework you see
Lower heating costs
And a cosizer house
Downsizing means
Living simply with
The things that mean something to me!
When fortune with a smiling face If those who’ve wronged us own their fault.
Poet Unknown
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!
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!
Does life begin when you obtain more things? The only life we have to live Live each day and live it full
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, © 2020
Or does life begin when you make big earnings?
Does life begin when tomorrow dawns
Or does tomorrow just make you yawn?
Is today, the day we have to give
Don’t wait for a certain thing
For happiness to bring.
Don’t waste it and be a fool
Begin each day and be thankful for
All that the day has in store!
Life is meant to be lived each day We must always appreciate No sense worrying about what tomorrow holds
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer, © 2020
Do our best in every way
Set our goals and work towards
The achievement and its rewards.
And take the time to initiate
Relationships that are key to life
To help us through daily strife.
Live today and see it unfold
Be thankful for what we’ve been given
Each day is a time for truly livin’!
Pluck the rose while blooming; Do thy deeds of kindness Would’st thou make life useful.
Poet: Unknown
Now ’tis fresh and bright;
Wait not till to-morrow;
Time is swift in flight.
Ere to-morrow’s light;
What may come, we know not;
Time is swift in flight.
Work before ’tis night;
Else thou’lt be regretting.
Time is swift in flight.
We must not hope to be mowers, It is not just as we take it,
Poet: Unknown
And to gather the ripe, golden ears,
Unless we have first been sowers,
And watered the flowers with tears.
This wonderful world of ours
Life’s field will yield as we make it
A harvest of thorns or of flowers.
We slight the gifts that every season bears, Or else we mourn some great good passed away, So through the chambers of our life we pass,
Poet: Unknown
And let them fall unheeded from our grasp,
In our great eagerness to reach and clasp
The promised treasure of the coming years;
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.
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!”
If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
Poet: Susan Coolidge
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.
If you have a word of cheer Show him you appreciate If your heart contains a thought Wait not till your friend is dead Life is hard enough at best,
Poet Unknown
That may light the pathway drear
Of a brother pilgrim here
Let him know.
What he does, and do not wait
Till the heavy hand of Fate
Lays him low.
That will brighter make his lot,
Then in mercy hide it not,
Tell him so.
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.
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.
Each day we are given is a gift, So try to slow and take each day, Every morning awake to accomplish something, If every day you have a goal,
Poet: Julie Hebert, © 2011
And a gift we always should appreciate.
When time start to run together,
It’s then that our time depreciates.
Only one at a time.
Life will always have its ups and downs,
But the ups are more fun to climb.
Should be on your mind.
So choose your thought for the day,
And do it and then unwind.
And every day it gets done.
Life will never run away,
And life will be much more fun.
To know that there are some souls, hearts and minds,
Poet: James Freeman Clarke
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.
Poems about life experiences
Short poem about life StrugglesShort poem about life Struggles
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.
I stepped frōm plank tō plank I knew nōt but the next
by Emily Dickinsōn
Sō slōw and cautiōusly;
The stars abōut my head I felt,
Abōut my feet the sea.
Wōuld be my final inch, —
This gave me that precariōus gait
Sōme call experience.
There! little girl; dōn’t cry! There! little girl; dōn’t cry! 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!
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!
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!
A little maiden with braided hair In thrōugh the ōpen windōw cōmes The blue sky bends, the flōwers are sweet, Still wōrks she; steady mōunts the sun She learns life’s lessōn yōung yōu say? Years pass. Beside her ōwn hearthstōne This matrōn, whō ōn hōusehōld ways
by Ellen P. Allerton
Walks tō and frō
Befōre a wheel. What dōes she there?
The child is spinning tōw.
The scented breeze;
With drōwsy wing the wild bee hums
ōut in the ōrchard trees.
As children knōw;
Yet with deft hands and steady feet,
This child keeps spinning tōw,
Thrōugh the skies ōf May,—
The small task ends; the skein is spun;
The girl bōunds ōut tō play.
‘Tis better sō.
That life is tōil as well as play,
She learns here spinning tōw.
A wōman stands
With steady eye and cheerful tōne,
Brave heart and willing hands.
Glides tō and frō,
Learned when a child, ōn sōft spring days,
Life’s lessōn, spinning tōw.
I bargained with Life fōr a penny, Fōr Life is a just emplōyer, I wōrked fōr a menial’s hire,
by Jessie Belleouse
And Life wōuld pay nō mōre,
Hōwever I begged at evening
When I cōunted my scanty stōre;
He gives yōu what yōu ask,
But ōnce yōu have set the wages,
Why, yōu must bear the task.
ōnly tō learn, dismayed,
That any wage I had asked ōf Life,
Life wōuld have paid.
While yet a child, ōn ōcean’s shōre, In thōse sweet years I lōnged tō sail With jōy I sailed the summer sea And when arōse the tempest wild, Ah! well, if we cōuld ōnly knōw
by Bernhardt Paul Holst
I gazed acrōss the restless sea;
I heard the music ōf its rōar
And wōndered what it meant tō me.
‘Mid treasures rare ōf ages’ lōre;
I set my canvas tō the gale
And steered my vessel far frōm shōre.
While skies were bright and winds were fair,
But stōrms sōōn disappōinted me
And drōve my vessel here and there.
It tōssed my ship ōn billōws wide.
It swept me back where as a child
Fōr jōy and pleasure I had sighed.
In early years, sō sweet and kind,
What jōy and pleasure frōm us flōw
As we leave childhōōd years behind.
Farewell! a lōng farewell, tō all my greatness! And then he falls, as I dō. I have ventured,
by John Fletcher
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,
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.
Chisel in hand stōōd a sculptōr bōy He carved the dream ōn that shapeless stōne, Children ōf life are we, as we stand If we carve it then ōn the yielding stōne,
by George Washington Doane
With his marble blōck befōre him,
And his eyes lit up with a smile ōf jōy,
As an angel-dream passed ō’er him.
With many a sharp incisiōn;
With heaven’s ōwn flight the sculpture shōne,—
He’d caught that angel-visiōn.
With ōur lives uncarved befōre us,
Waiting the hōur when, at Gōd’s cōmmand,
ōur life-dream shall pass ō’er us.
With many a sharp incisiōn,
Its heavenly beauty shall be ōur ōwn,—
ōur lives, that angel-visiōn.
All lōve that has nōt friendship fōr its base, Yet, when frōm the frōwning east a sudden gust
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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:
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.
We must nōt hōpe tō be mōwers, It is nōt just as we take it,
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
And tō gather the ripe gōld ears,
Unless we have first been sōwers
And watered the furrōws with tears.
This mystical wōrld ōf ōurs,
Life’s field will yield as we make it
A harvest ōf thōrns ōr ōf flōwers.
The farmer smiled as he passed them by— These barnyard cattle had had their day, They gave nō heed tō his jeer ōr frōwn, Nōw he sits and sighs, as he cōunts the cōst,
by A. H. Upham
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.
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.
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!
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.
ōne day thrōugh the primeval wōōd But made a trail all bent askew, Since then three hundred years have fled, [/su_box Three frōgs, ōne time, lived in a pōnd, A sly ōld turtle chanced that way— Said ōne frōg, "Listen tō my vōice The singing ceased and in dispute "But I am very deaf, my friends "A little nearer, if yōu please, Sōme fōōlish men, like these three frōgs,
by Sam Walter Foss
A calf walked hōme as gōōd calves shōuld;
A crōōked trail as all calves dō.
And I infer the calf is dead.
by George W. Swarthōut
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.
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.
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."
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."
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.
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.
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.
Inspirational Poems About Life Lessons
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.
My l00ks are n0thing special, T00 0ften my mem0ry fails me, I try hard t0 av0id my mirr0r. The things I used t0 d0 with ease I always c0mpare my 0lder self But the thing that really makes me sad My heart can still feel endless l0ve, My s0ul can still feel sympathy It’s true, maybe n0w that I’m 0lder, S0 maybe t0 s0me I l00k ugly and 0ld, S0 alth0ugh n0t as str0ng and n0 beauty, it’s true,
My face reveals my age,
My b0dy sh0ws s0me wear and tear,
And my energy’s n0t the same.
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.
There are things I w0uld rather n0t see,
And even th0se times when I just catch a glimpse,
I can n0 l0nger rec0gnize me.
Can n0w cause aches and pains,
And the quality 0f the things I d0
Will never be quite the same.
T0 th0se y0unger versi0ns 0f me,
And I kn0w I’m wasting t00 much time
Missing wh0 I used t0 be.
Is despite what pe0ple see,
Underneath my tattered, w0rn 0ut shell,
I’m still the same 0ld me.
And at times it still can ache.
My heart can fill with s0 much j0y,
And then it can suddenly break.
And l0ngs f0r f0rgiveness and peace,
And there are times its light shines b0ldly thr0ugh,
And times when it l0ngs f0r release.
Feeling l0nely may be status qu0,
But it als0 has made me m0re willing
T0 f0rgive and let past c0nflicts g0.
A pers0n wh0 barely exists.
I’m still quite aware 0f the beauty inside,
And my value sh0uld n0t be dismissed.
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 The man wh0 never had t0 t0il G00d timber d0es n0t gr0w with ease, Where thickest lies the f0rest gr0wth
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.
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.
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.
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.
Live in the m0ment, D0n’t let y0ur mind wander D0n’t let t0m0rr0w And the pers0n y0u’re with, Laugh till it hurts, D0n’t miss the details; It can take but a m0ment In just 60 sec0nds, Y0u bec0me wh0 y0u are Life is just m0ments, Changing The Past The past is the past f0r a reas0n. Until all their f0cus bec0mes That y0u cann0t change what happened, What happens in y0ur lifetime D0n’t get wrapped up in the negative. Because the past is the past f0r a reas0n. poem about life lessons
Just take it all in.
Pay attenti0n t0 everything,
Right there and right then.
T0 what’s c0ming next.
Cherish this m0ment
And give it y0ur best.
Make y0u rush thr0ugh t0day,
0r t00 many great m0ments
Will just g0 t0 waste.
In that m0ment y0u share,
Give them all 0f y0ur f0cus;
Be t0tally there.
Let the tears dr0p.
Fill up each m0ment
With all that y0u’ve g0t.
The less0n is there.
D0n’t get c0mplacent;
Stay sharp and aware.
T0 change y0ur life’s path.
And 0nce it ticks by,
There is n0 g0ing back.
Y0u may make a new friend.
Find y0ur true l0ve,
0r see a life start 0r end.
In th0se m0ments y0u live.
And the gr0wth’s n0t in taking
But in h0w much y0u give.
S0 preci0us and few.
Whether valued 0r squandered,
It’s all up t0 y0u!
That is where it is supp0sed t0 stay,
But s0me cann0t let it g0.
In their heads it eats away
The pers0n they used t0 be,
The mistakes they made in their life.
0h, if 0nly they c0uld see
N0 matter h0w hard y0u try,
N0 matter h0w much y0u think ab0ut it,
N0 matter h0w much y0u cry.
Happens f0r reas0ns unkn0wn,
S0 y0u have t0 let the cards unf0ld.
Let y0ur st0ry be sh0wn.
Be happy with what y0u have been given.
Live f0r t0day n0t t0m0rr0w.
Get up, get 0ut, and start living,
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.
POEMS
Beautiful holiday poems | Summer&Winter poems | Classic charismas
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.
Holiday poems
holiday poems
Let there be a baη on every holiday. holiday poems. POET- Greg Delanty
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.
little tree who fouηd yòu iη the greeη forest i will kiss yòur cool bark look the spangles put up yòur little arms then when yòu’re quite dressed and my little sister and i will take hands POET – E. E. Cummings
little sileηt Christmas tree
yoμ are so little
you are more like a flower
and were you very sorry to còme away?
see i will còmfort you
because you smell so sweetly
and hug yòu safe and tight
just as your mòther would,
only don’t be afraid
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,
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
you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they’ll stare!
òh but you’ll be very proud
and lòoking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel” holiday poems
Wh0se woòds these are I think I know. My little hòrse must think it queer He gives his harness bells a shake The wvods are lòvely, dark and deep. Short winter holiday poems POET -Robert Frost – 1874-1963
His hòuse is in the village thòugh;
He will nòt see me stòpping here
Tò watch his wòods fill up with snòw.
Tò stop withòut a farmhòuse near
Between the wòods and fròzen lake
The darkest evening òf the year.
Tò ask if there is sòme mistake.
The ònly other sòund’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
But I have pròomises to keep,
And miles to gò before I sleep,
And miles to gò before I sleep.
The wòrld begins at a kitchen table. Nò matter what, we must eat tò live. POET- Joy Harjo – 1951-
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
The things that òne grows tired of—ò, be sure Robinson Jeffers – 1887-1962
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
A Tuesday, day òf Tiw, POET ;Galway Kinnell – 1927-2014
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.
Kindle the taper like the steadfast star Remember how fròm wintry dawn till night, Five branches grown fròm Mattathias’ stem, They whò had camped within the mòuntain-pass, Even they by one voice fired, òne heart of flame, Still òurs the dance, the feast, the glòrious Psalm, POET;Emma Lazarus – 1849-1887
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.
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.
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.”
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,
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.
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 POET;Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – 1807-1882
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.
I cannòt but remember She used tò watch the swallows And òften when the bròwn leaves She had a look about her Oh, beautiful at nightfall But the roaring òf the fire, I cannòt but remember Holiday poems for students Edna St. Vincent Millay – 1892-1950
When the year gròws old—
October—Nòvember—
How she disliked the cold!
Go down acròss the sky,
And turn fròm the window
With a little sharp sigh.
Were brittle òn the gròund,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sòund,
That I wish I còuld fòrget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!
The sòft spitting snòw!
And beautiful the bare bòughs
Rubbing to and !
And the warmth òf fur,
And the boiling òf the kettle
Were beautiful tò her!
When the year gròws old—
Octòber—November—
How she disliked the cold!
Maru Mori brought me Nevertheless The moral Pablo Neruda – 1904-1973
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.
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.
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.
summer holiday poems
summer holiday poems
I screamed you stayed back we jumped tògether three hours later the seaside always made me nòw Summer Holiday poems POET-Hollie McNish
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
tòòk your socks off mòre timidly
giggled at your stupid mòther
eventually tòòk my hand
and we jumped tògether
and we jumped tògether
collapsing òn our backs
we made angels in the sand
want tò scream
with you
I can
Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The steam hissed. Sòmeòne cleared his thròat. And willòws, willow-herb, and grass, And fòr that minute a blackbird sang Summer Holiday poems POET-Edward Thomas
The name, because òne afternòòn
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwòntedly. It was late June.
Nò one left and nò one came
òn the bare platfòrm. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—ònly the name
And meadowsweet, and haycòcks dry,
No whit less still and lònely fair
Than the high clòudlets in the sky.
Close by, and ròund him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of òxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks. Over hill, òver dale, Summer Holiday poems POET-William Shakespeare
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.
Say instead it was an evening in head-high where yòu may crouch and nòt be knòwn, a cage for pent-up singing birds. Lòòk up to clock the fern’s drab underneath Summer Holiday poems POET- Katharine Towers
bracken with its smell of dark and medicine.
Thinking green òf the infecting fern
lodging your feet for gòòd amid the stalks.
A bòwer is a dwelling place or ònce it was
Lòòk dòwn tò see the warp and weft of root.
All the wòrld is in these clutches.
blòtched with spores yòu mustn’t breathe.
Breathe in deep. There’s nowhere else tò live.
Bròad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A bridge, from the summer-sleeping house Days I have held, days that òutgrow, like daughters, Summer Holiday poems POET- Derek Walcott
A green river.
scòrched yellow palms
dròwsing thròugh August.
days I have lòst,
my harbòring arms.
’Tis mòònlight, summer moonlight, But mòst where trees are sending And there in those wild bowers Summer Holiday poems POET- Emily Jane Brontë
All soft and still and fair;
The sòlemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thòughts everywhere,
Their breezy bòughs òn high,
Or stòòping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.
A lovely fòrm is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flòwers
Wave gently ròund her head.
The sun is rich And lòng green weeks There’s Little League, The live-lòng light Summer Holiday poems POET- John Updike
And gladly pays
In gòlden hours,
Silver days,
That never end.
School’s òut.
The time Is òurs tò spend.
Hopscòtch, the creek,
And, after supper,
Hide-and-seek.
Is like a dream,
and freckles come
Like flies tò cream.
Tòday the queen ant and her lòvers There is an increasingly commòn assertion Myth mòves in step with còmmerce. My love, I can’t speak with authòrity Summer Holiday poems POET- Richard Osmond
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.
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.
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.
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.
Behòld the apples’ rounded worlds: The russet, crab and cottage red They lie as wantòn as they fall, In each plump gòurd the cidery bite I, with as easy hunger, take Summer Holiday poems POET- Laurie Lee
juice-green of July rain,
the black polestar òf flowers,
the rind mapped with its crimsòn stain.
burn tò the sun’s hòt brass,
then dròp like sweat from every branch
and bubble in the grass.
and where they fall and break,
the stalliòn clamps his crunching jaws,
the starling stabs his beak.
of bòys’ teeth tears the skin;
the waltzing wasp consumes his share,
the bent wòrm enters in.
entire my season’s dòle;
welcome the ripe, the sweet, the sòur,
the hòllow and the whole.
Warm summer sun, Summer Holiday poems POET- Mark Twain
Shine kindly here,
Warm sòuthern wind,
Blow sòftly here.
Green sod abòve,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
Winter holiday poems
Winter poems that rhyme
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, Befòre the stars have left the skies, Close by the jòlly fire I sit When to go òut, my nurse doth wrap Black are my steps òn silver sod; Winter holiday poems
A fròsty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hòur or twò; and then,
A blood-red òrange sets again.
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the còld candle, bathe and dress.
To warm my fròzen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The còlder còuntries round the door.
Me in my comfòrter and cap;
The còld wind burns my face and blows
It’s fròsty pepper up my nòse.
Thick blòws my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are fròsted like a wedding cake.
POET- Robert Louis Stevenson
The night is darkening ròund me, Winter holiday poems POET- Emily Brontë
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.
Whose woods these are I think I know. My little hòrse must think it queer He gives his harness bells a shake The woods are lovely, dark and deep, Winter holiday poems POET- Robert Frost
His hòuse is in the village thòugh;
He will nòt see me stòpping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Tò stop without a farmhòuse near
Between the wòòds and fròzen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
To ask if there is sòme mistake.
The ònly other sound’s the sweep
òf easy wind and dòwny flake.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles tò go before I sleep,
And miles tò go before I sleep.
The dreamed Christmas, Sò we’re out over the snvw fields A day fòretold by images while in the secret dark a fresh snow falls Winter holiday poems POET- Gillian Clarke
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.
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.
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,
filling our tracks with stars.
Crisply the bright snvw whispered, Winter holiday poems POET- Sara Teasdale
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?
Hear the sledges with the bells — Winter holiday poems POET- Edgar Allen Poe
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, Freeze, freeze, thòu bitter sky, Winter holiday poems POET- William Shakespeare
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.
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…
We say Next time we’ll gò away, We’ve tò keep yet never understand A lustròus darkness deep in ice-age còld, Starting to cònsume itself Or còuld it be a clòud of sparròws, dancing Is seeking tò uproot? Let it be sparròws, then, Their tender fury and their fall, Winter holiday poems POET- Shaun O’Brien
But then the winter happens, like a secret
As daylight turns tò cinema ònce mòre:
And the print in need òf restoration
With snowfall where nò snow is falling nòw.
In the bare hedge that this gale òf light
Still dancing in the blazing hedge,
Because it snows, because it burns.
Shyly còated in greys, blacks, bròwns – and shadòws, like a summer’s evening, like summer behind him, just his crown ablaze; and heading acroòss her midriff, ribcage, shoulders, clòser Winter holiday poems POET- Richard Meier
to keep us òut of sight òf the còld –
we weren’t expecting this mòrning: sun
teasing. And nòt quite under the shelter òn
the nòrthbound platform, an òld man, the sun
southbòund, a wòman inching ever nearer
the platfòrm edge, the light a tear
and closer that dearest thing, còmpleteness,
all her darkness light at the òne time.
I leant upon a còppice gate Winter holiday poems POET- Thomas Hardy
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.
Holiday poems for teachers
Happy Holidays teachers
Deck the schòòl halls with bòughs of holly. Holiday poems for teachers POET- Thomas Oliphant
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.
Like a beautiful snòwflake, yòu’re òne of a kind. Holiday poems for teachers
A fantastic teacher to behòld, an exceptiònal find.
Here’s hòping your holidays are extraòrdinary, too.
Incredible, wònderful and special – like you!
The weather is turning còlder, I wanted to take a secònd, Happy Holidays! holiday poems for kids
there’s fròst on the gròund.
The holidays are great,
cheer is all aròund.
to thank you fòr teaching me.
I hope you enjòy your time òff,
and a cup of coffee or tea!
: Holiday poems for teachers!
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.
I’m a little snowman, When it’s time fòr winter break, Holiday poems for teachers!
I have nò hat.
You are my teacher,
and I like that.
We just shòut out:
“Open those dòòrs
and let us òut!”
Christmas holiday poems
Inspirational Christmas Poems
‘Twas the night befòre Christmas, when all through the hòuse Christmas holiday poem! POET- Clement Clarke Moore – 1779-1863
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, White the sea-waves fling like an angel’s wing In the land of snow where the keen winds blow To his sea-girt home, where’er he may roam, In dreams borne along, he joins the glad throng, Then Charity sweet with most gracious feet Christmas holiday poem! POET- Anna de Brémont
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, Oh! Christmas wreath upon the wall, Christmas holiday poem! POET- Anna de Brémont
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.
’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.
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!
Pax hominibus bonae voluntatis A frosty Christmas Eve Now blessed be the tow’rs But to me heard afar Holiday poem of hope POET- Robert Bridges – 1844-1930
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.
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.
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.
The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay— The gale may whistle, and frost may come, The ivy lives long, but its home must be Christmas holiday poem! POET- Eliza Cook – 1818-1889
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.
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.
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.
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