Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 251.  
    "Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
    Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
  • 252.  
    Around Sebago's lonely lake
    There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.
  • 253.  
    One day, along the electric wire
    His manly word for Freedom sped; We came next morn: that tongue of fire
  • 254.  
    TO A YOUNG PHYSICIAN, WITH DORE'S PICTURE OF CHRIST
    HEALING THE SICK.
  • 255.  
    All day the darkness and the cold
    Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky,
  • 256.  
    A BLUSH as of roses
    Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass,
  • 257.  
    O Mother State! the winds of March
    Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God, Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch
  • 258.  
    O lonely bay of Trinity,
    O dreary shores, give ear! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea
  • 259.  
    O dearest bloom the seasons know,
    Flowers of the Resurrection blow, Our hope and faith restore;
  • 260.  
    John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:
    'I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
  • 261.  
    In the outskirts of the village
    On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees,
  • 262.  
    A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.
    To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
  • 263.  
    She came and stood in the Old South Church,
    A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore,
  • 264.  
    I.
    The mercy, O Eternal One! By man unmeasured yet,
  • 265.  
    We had been wandering for many days
    Through the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,
  • 266.  
    BEAR him, comrades, to his grave;
    Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep,
  • 267.  
    In the fair land o'erwatched by Ischia's mountains,
    Across the charmed bay Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver fountains
  • 268.  
    Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac,
    From wave and shore a low and long lament For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went
  • 269.  
    WHEN Freedom, on her natal day,
    Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood,
  • 270.  
    Blossom and greenness, making all
    The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay,
  • 271.  
    In that black forest, where, when day is done,
    With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
  • 272.  
    ONCE, more, dear friends, you meet beneath
    A clouded sky: Not yet the sword has found its sheath,
  • 273.  
    'Midst the men and things which will
    Haunt an old man's memory still, Drollest, quaintest of them all,
  • 274.  
    From Institutes of Manu.
    The soul itself its awful witness is.
  • 275.  
    FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the
    lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's
  • 276.  
    'T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile
    With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down Its beauty on the Indian isle, â??
  • 277.  
    Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale,
    O man of God! our hope and faith The Elements and Stars assail,
  • 278.  
    O storied vale of Merrimac
    Rejoice through all thy shade and shine, And from his century's sleep call back
  • 279.  
    Of A Virginia Slave Mother To Her Daughters Sold Into Southern Bondage

  • 280.  
    How strange to greet, this frosty morn,
    In graceful counterfeit of flower, These children of the meadows, born
  • 281.  
    I.
    Our fathers' God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand,
  • 282.  
    My lady walks her morning round,
    My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir,
  • 283.  
    Over the threshold of his pleasant home
    Set in green clearings passed the exiled Friend, In simple trust, misdoubting not the end.
  • 284.  
    Call him not heretic whose works attest
    His faith in goodness by no creed confessed. Whatever in love's name is truly done
  • 285.  
    LINES WRITTEN AFTER A SUMMER DAY'S EXCURSION.
    Fair Nature's priestesses! to whom,
  • 286.  
    From the Mahabharata.
    Heed how thou livest. Do no act by day
  • 287.  
    I.
    THROUGH the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped;
  • 288.  
    Raze these long blocks of brick and stone,
    These huge mill-monsters overgrown; Blot out the humbler piles as well,
  • 289.  
    'I do believe, and yet, in grief,
    I pray for help to unbelief; For needful strength aside to lay
  • 290.  
    THE South-land boasts its teeming cane,
    The prairied West its heavy grain, And sunset's radiant gates unfold
  • 291.  
    THE SUMMER warmth has left the sky,
    The summer songs have died away; And, withered, in the footpaths lie
  • 292.  
    Before my drift-wood fire I sit,
    And see, with every waif I burn, Old dreams and fancies coloring it,
  • 293.  
    A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire,
    A faith which doubt can never dim, A heart of love, a lip of fire,
  • 294.  
    With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow,
    The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.
  • 295.  
    Take our hands, James Russell Lowell,
    Our hearts are all thy own; To-day we bid thee welcome
  • 296.  
    His laurels fresh from song and lay,
    Romance, art, science, rich in all, And young of heart, how dare we say
  • 297.  
    As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
    Beneath a coldly dropping sky, Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
  • 298.  
    I HEARD the train's shrill whistle call,
    I saw an earnest look beseech, And rather by that look than speech
  • 299.  
    Long since, a dream of heaven I had,
    And still the vision haunts me oft; I see the saints in white robes clad,
  • 300.  
    Still sits the school-house by the road,
    A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow,
Total 522 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

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Sunset
 by Don Marquis

I stood among the boats
The sinking sun, the angry sun,
Across the sullen wave
Laid the sudden strength of his red wrath
Like to a shaken glaive:-
Or did the sun pause in the west
To lift a sword at me,
Or was it she, or was it she,
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