Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 101.  
    The years are many since his hand
    Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand
  • 102.  
    'GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns
    From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!' So say her kings and priests; so say
  • 103.  
    O strong, upwelling prayers of faith,
    From inmost founts of life ye start,- The spirit's pulse, the vital breath
  • 104.  
    'O for a knight like Bayard,
    Without reproach or fear; My light glove on his casque of steel,
  • 105.  
    'And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?' My sister asked our guest one winter's day.
  • 106.  
    Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day,
    While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice,
  • 107.  
    To kneel before some saintly shrine,
    To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow,
  • 108.  
    THE winding way the serpent takes
    The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes,
  • 109.  
    The Eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks,
    For the wild hunter and the Bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone
  • 110.  
    Ho! workers of the old time styled
    The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild,
  • 111.  
    WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
    Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
  • 112.  
    So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame,
    Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame,
  • 113.  
    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,
  • 114.  
    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
  • 115.  
    Who gives and hides the giving hand,
    Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Shall find his smallest gift outweighs
  • 116.  
    GREYSTONE, AUG. 4, 1886.
    Once more, O all-adjusting Death!
  • 117.  
    Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
    I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and stark
  • 118.  
    THEY sat in silent watchfulness
    The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
  • 119.  
    NOT with the splendors of the days of old,
    The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold; No weapons wrested from the fields of blood,
  • 120.  
    IN Westminster's royal halls,
    Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood
  • 121.  
    Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
  • 122.  
    The goodman sat beside his door
    One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side
  • 123.  
    Along Crane River's sunny slopes Blew warm the winds of May,
  • 124.  
    The subtle power in perfume found
    Nor priest nor sibyl vainly learned; On Grecian shrine or Aztec mound
  • 125.  
    Old friend, kind friend! lightly down
  • 126.  
    A SOUND of tumult troubles all the air,
    Like the low thunders of a sultry sky Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare;
  • 127.  
    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
  • 128.  
    THE pleasant isle of Rügen looks the Baltic water o'er,
    To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore;
  • 129.  
    After the Danish of Christian Winter

  • 130.  
    L. M. C.
    We sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked
  • 131.  
    The shade for me, but over thee
    The lingering sunshine still; As, smiling, to the silent stream
  • 132.  
    The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room,
    And eats his meat and drinks his ale, And beats the maid with her unused broom,
  • 133.  
    I mourn no more my vanished years
    Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears,
  • 134.  
    Still linger in our noon of time
    And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns
  • 135.  
    He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
    You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields
  • 136.  
    THE proudest now is but my peer,
    The highest not more high; To-day, of all the weary year,
  • 137.  
    In my dream, methought I trod,
    Yesternight, a mountain road; Narrow as Al Sirat's span,
  • 138.  
    On page of thine I cannot trace
  • 139.  
    THE day's sharp strife is ended now,
    Our work is done, God knoweth how! As on the thronged, unrestful town
  • 140.  
    O dwellers in the stately towns,
    What come ye out to see? This common earth, this common sky,
  • 141.  
    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.'
  • 142.  
    'O Lady fair, these silks of mine
    are beautiful and rare,- The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's
  • 143.  
    Have I not voyaged, friend beloved, with thee
    On the great waters of the unsounded sea, Momently listening with suspended oar
  • 144.  
    The shadows round the inland sea
    Are deepening into night; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee
  • 145.  
    HURRAH! the seaward breezes
    Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
  • 146.  
    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
  • 147.  
    Gone before us, O our brother,
  • 148.  
    'Neath skies that winter never knew
    The air was full of light and balm, And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew
  • 149.  
    WITH a glory of winter sunshine
  • 150.  
    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

 by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.

But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful

Read complete poem

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