Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 401.  
    I.
    O'er the bare woods, whose outstretched handsPlead with the leaden heavens in vain,
  • 402.  
    Gallery of sacred pictures manifold,
    A minster rich in holy effigies,And bearing on entablature and frieze
  • 403.  
    A cloud, like that the old-time Hebrew saw
    On Carmel prophesying rain, beganTo lift itself o'er wooded Cardigan,
  • 404.  
    Stream of my fathers! sweetly still
    The sunset rays thy valley fill;Poured slantwise down the long defile,
  • 405.  
    BOWDOIN STREET, BOSTON, 1877.

  • 406.  
    How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze
    To him who fliesFrom crowded street and red wall's weary gleam,
  • 407.  
    Of all the rides since the birth of time,
    Told in story or sung in rhyme, -On Apuleius' Golden Ass,
  • 408.  
    O Friends! with whom my feet have trod
    The quiet aisles of prayer,Glad witness to your zeal for God
  • 409.  
    A NOTELESS stream, the Birchbrook runs
    Beneath its leaning trees;That low, soft ripple is its own,
  • 410.  
    They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead,
    That all of thee we loved and cherishedHas with thy summer roses perished;
  • 411.  
    FROM gold to gray
    Our mild sweet dayOf Indian Summer fades too soon;
  • 412.  
    We saw the slow tides go and come,
    The curving surf-lines lightly drawn,The gray rocks touched with tender bloom
  • 413.  
    'Tis morning over Norridgewock, -
    On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred
  • 414.  
    Oh, well may Essex sit forlorn
    Beside her sea-blown shore;Her well beloved, her noblest born,
  • 415.  
    Out and in the river is winding
    The links of its long, red chain,Through belts of dusky pine-land
  • 416.  
    We have opened the door,
    Once, twice, thrice!We have swept the floor,
  • 417.  
    'BRING out your dead!' The midnight street
    Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call;Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet,
  • 418.  
    Hands off! thou tithe-fat plunderer! play
    No trick of priestcraft here!Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay
  • 419.  
    How has New England's romance fled,
    Even as a vision of the morning!Its rites foredone, its guardians dead,
  • 420.  
    A TALE for Roman guides to tell
    To careless, sight-worn travellers still,Who pause beside the narrow cell
  • 421.  
    In trance and dream of old, God's prophet saw
    The casting down of thrones. Thou, watching loneThe hot Sardinian coast-line, hazy-hilled,
  • 422.  
    The flags of war like storm birds fly,
    The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
  • 423.  
    UNDER the great hill sloping bare
    To cove and meadow and Common lot,In his council chamber and oaken chair,
  • 424.  
    How sweetly come the holy psalms
    From saints and martyrs down,The waving of triumphal palms
  • 425.  
    'The cross, if rightly borne, shall be
    No burden, but support to thee;'So, moved of old time for our sake,
  • 426.  
    WITH COPIES OF THE AUTHOR'S WRITINGS.

  • 427.  
    We may not climb the heavenly steeps
    To bring the Lord Christ down;In vain we search the lowest deeps
  • 428.  
    The name the Gallic exile bore,
    St. Malo! from thy ancient mart,Became upon our Western shore
  • 429.  
    Traveller! on thy journey toiling
    By the swift Powow,With the summer sunshine falling
  • 430.  
    GONE to thy Heavenly Father's rest!
    The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,And on thine ear the murmurs blest
  • 431.  
    Climbing a path which leads back never more
    We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer;Now, face to face, we greet him standing here
  • 432.  
    ROBERT RAWLIN!--Frosts were falling
    When the ranger's horn was callingThrough the woods to Canada.
  • 433.  
    O PEOPLE-CHOSEN! are ye not
    Likewise the chosen of the Lord,To do His will and speak His word?
  • 434.  
    WITH A COPY OF 'THE SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND.'

  • 435.  
    GEORGE FULLER

  • 436.  
    RIGHT in the track where Sherman
    Ploughed his red furrow,Out of the narrow cabin,
  • 437.  
    From pain and peril, by land and main,
    The shipwrecked sailor came back again;
  • 438.  
    I need not ask thee, for my sake,
    To read a book which well may makeIts way by native force of wit
  • 439.  
    We praise not now the poet's art,
    The rounded beauty of his song;Who weighs him from his life apart
  • 440.  
    Maud Muller on a summer's day
    Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
  • 441.  
    Along the aisle where prayer was made,
    A woman, all in black arrayed,Close-veiled, between the kneeling host,
  • 442.  
    On these green banks, where falls too soon
    The shade of Autumn's afternoon,The south wind blowing soft and sweet,
  • 443.  
    Bland as the morning breath of June
    The southwest breezes play;And, through its haze, the winter noon
  • 444.  
    The sword was sheathed: in April's sun
    Lay green the fields by Freedom won;And severed sections, weary of debates,
  • 445.  
    Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
    May never know;Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
  • 446.  
    I WOULD the gift I offer here
    Might graces from thy favor take,And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere,
  • 447.  
    I wait and watch: before my eyes
    Methinks the night grows thin and gray;I wait and watch the eastern skies
  • 448.  
    Addressed to Francis Greenleaf Allison of Burlington, New Jersey.

  • 449.  
    THE SUNLIGHT glitters keen and bright,
    Where, miles away,Lies stretching to my dazzled sight
  • 450.  
    I.
    NOT without envy Wealth at times must lookOn their brown strength who wield the reaping-hook.'
Total 522 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

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