Tag: poetry about life

Poetry - Fallen Leaves

Poetry – Fallen Leaves

Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread,Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled. Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far springShall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling. Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be,We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree! — Effie Smith

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Poetry – Preparation

“I have no time for those things now,” we say;“But in the future just a little way,No longer by this ceaseless toil oppressed,I shall have leisure then for thought and rest.When I the debts upon my land have paid,Or on foundations firm my business laid,I shall take time for discourse long and sweetWith those beloved who round my hearthstone meet;I shall take time on mornings still and coolTo seek the freshness dim of wood and pool,Where, calmed and hallowed by great Nature’s peace,My life from its hot cares shall find release;I shall take time to think on destiny,Of what I

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Poetry – To A Silver Dollar

Pale coin, what various hands have you passed throughEre you to-day within my hand were laid?Perchance a laborer’s well-earned hire you made;Some miser may have gloated long on you;Perhaps some pitying hand to Want outthrew;And, lost and won through devious tricks of trade,You may have been, alas! the full price paidFor some poor soul that loved you past your due. No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty,You see not where your placid face is thrust,Nor know how far man is from being free,Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust,While to his anxious soul like mockerySeem those fair, graven words:

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Poetry – Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not be but gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed – and gazed – but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me

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Poetry – Hampton Holidays

LAST comes December with his ruffian windWhirled from the maelstrom of the polar seaTo sweep our mighty hill in mockeryOf such enshrouding snows as would be kindAnd wrap their frozen mother. Stiffly linedThrough thin and crackling ice the leaves lie starkAs hoar Caina’s ice-locked souls, and darkIn the dark air the branches toss and grind. Then dawns another day when winds are still;From our frost-flashing village on the hillWe greet the laggard sun, and far belowAll down the valley see the silver spread,Save where the dim fir-forest’s pungent bedLies thatched by tufted pine-plumes bright with snow. — George Allan England

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