John Greenleaf Whittier Poems
William Forster The years are many since his hand
Was laid upon my head,
Too weak and young to understand
The Peace Of Europe 'GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns
From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!'
So say her kings and priests; so say
The Hermit Of Thebaid O strong, upwelling prayers of faith,
From inmost founts of life ye start,-
The spirit's pulse, the vital breath
The Hero 'O for a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear;
My light glove on his casque of steel,
Bayard Taylor I.
'And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?'
My sister asked our guest one winter's day.
The Gift Of Tritemius Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day,
While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray,
Alone with God, as was his pious choice,
A Summer Pilgrimage To kneel before some saintly shrine,
To breathe the health of airs divine,
Or bathe where sacred rivers flow,
Norembega THE winding way the serpent takes
The mystic water took,
From where, to count its beaded lakes,
Inscription-for The Relief By Preston Powers The Eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks,
For the wild hunter and the Bison seeks,
In the changed world below; and finds alone
The Shoemakers Ho! workers of the old time styled
The Gentle Craft of Leather!
Young brothers of the ancient guild,
The Men Of Old WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art,
If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
To George B. Cheever So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame,
Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame
The traffickers in men, and put to shame,
Palestine Blest land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
At Last When on my day of life the night is falling,
And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,
I hear far voices out of darkness calling
Giving And Taking Who gives and hides the giving hand,
Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise,
Shall find his smallest gift outweighs
Samuel J. Tilden GREYSTONE, AUG. 4, 1886.
Once more, O all-adjusting Death!
My Soul And I Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
I would question thee,
Alone in the shadow drear and stark
The Cypress-tree Of Ceylon THEY sat in silent watchfulness
The sacred cypress-tree about,
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
Pennsylvania Hall NOT with the splendors of the days of old,
The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold;
No weapons wrested from the fields of blood,
The Curse Of The Charter-breakers IN Westminster's royal halls,
Robed in their pontificals,
England's ancient prelates stood
Naples INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.
Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
The Exiles. 1660 The goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
The Witch Of Wenham I.
Along Crane River's sunny slopes
Blew warm the winds of May,
Sweet Fern The subtle power in perfume found
Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned;
On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound
To My Old Schoolmaster AN EPISTLE NOT AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE
Old friend, kind friend! lightly down
What Of The Day A SOUND of tumult troubles all the air,
Like the low thunders of a sultry sky
Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare;
The Branded Hand WELCOME home again, brave seaman! with thy thoughtful brow and gray,
And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day;
With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve in vain
The Brown Dwarf Of Rà¼gen (from Narrative And Legendary Poems ) THE pleasant isle of RÃ¼gen looks the Baltic water o'er,
To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore;
King Volmer And Elsie After the Danish of Christian Winter
Within The Gate L. M. C.
We sat together, last May-day, and talked
Of the dear friends who walked
The Sisters - A Picture By Barry The shade for me, but over thee
The lingering sunshine still;
As, smiling, to the silent stream
The Demon Of The Study The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room,
And eats his meat and drinks his ale,
And beats the maid with her unused broom,
My Psalm I mourn no more my vanished years
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
Child-songs Still linger in our noon of time
And on our Saxon tongue
The echoes of the home-born hymns
The Frost Spirit He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields
The Poor Voter On Election Day THE proudest now is but my peer,
The highest not more high;
To-day, of all the weary year,
My Dream In my dream, methought I trod,
Yesternight, a mountain road;
Narrow as Al Sirat's span,
Ego WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND.
On page of thine I cannot trace
After Election THE day's sharp strife is ended now,
Our work is done, God knoweth how!
As on the thronged, unrestful town
June On The Merrimac O dwellers in the stately towns,
What come ye out to see?
This common earth, this common sky,
The Swan Song Of Parson Avery When the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late,
Parson Avery sailed from Newbury, with his wife and children eight,
Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop 'Watch and Wait.'
The Vaudois Teacher 'O Lady fair, these silks of mine
are beautiful and rare,-
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's
In Quest Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee
On the great waters of the unsounded sea,
Momently listening with suspended oar
The Lakeside The shadows round the inland sea
Are deepening into night;
Slow up the slopes of Ossipee
The Fishermen HURRAH! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain;
Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
James Russell Lowell From purest wells of English undefiled
None deeper drank than he, the New World's child,
Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke
Lines On The Death Of S. Oliver Torrey SECRETARY OF THE BOSTON YOUNG MEN'S ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY.
Gone before us, O our brother,
I Was A Stranger, And Ye Took Me In 'Neath skies that winter never knew
The air was full of light and balm,
And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew
The Poet And The Children LONGFELLOW.
WITH a glory of winter sunshine
The Maids Of Attitash In sky and wave the white clouds swam,
And the blue hills of Nottingham
Through gaps of leafy green
Total 522 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier
Poem of the day
When I Watch The Living Meet by A. E. Housman
When I watch the living meet,
And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
Where I lodge a little while,
If the heats of hate and lust
In the house of flesh are strong,
Let me mind the house of dust
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