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

Poem of the day

Eight O’Clock
 by Sara Teasdale

Supper comes at five o'clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o'clock -
But eight o'clock is far.

How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
...

Read complete poem

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