TO HEAVEN
Open thy gates
To him who weeping waits,
And might come in,
But that held back by sin.
Let mercy be
So kind, to set me free,
And I will straight
Come in, or force the gate.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Summer and Winter
It was a bright and cheerful afternoon,
Towards the end of the sunny month of June,
When the north wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon--and the stainless sky
Opens beyond them like eternity.
All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds,
The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds;
The willow leaves that glanced in the light breeze,
And the firm foliage of the larger trees.
It was a winter such as when birds die
In the deep forests; and the fishes lie
Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes
Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes
A wrinkled clod as hard as brick; and when,
Among their children, comfortable men
136. Prayer—O Thou Dread Power
O THOU dread Power, who reign’st above,
I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make this prayer sincere.
The hoary Sire—the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas’d to spare;
To bless this little filial flock,
And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother’s joys,
But spare a mother’s tears!
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth.
In manhood’s dawning blush,
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent’s wish.
311. On the Birth of a Posthumous Child
SWEET flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,
And ward o’ mony a prayer,
What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?
November hirples o’er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form:
And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.
May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show’r,
The bitter frost and snaw.
May He, the friend o’ Woe and Want,
Who heals life’s various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
To the Moon
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,--
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
That grazes on thee till in thee it pities...
His Prayer To Ben Jonson
When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.
193. On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Lock Turit
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat’ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?—
Common friend to you and me,
yature’s gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow’s shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace,
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
THE CEREMONIES FOR CANDLEMAS DAY
Kindle the Christmas brand, and then
Till sunset let it burn;
Which quench'd, then lay it up again,
Till Christmas next return.
Part must be kept, wherewith to teend
The Christmas log next year;
And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend
Can do no mischief there.
To My Mother
You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.
Cancelled Passage of the Ode to Liberty
Within a cavern of man's trackless spirit
Is throned an Image, so intensely fair
That the adventurous thoughts that wander near it
Worship, and as they kneel, tremble and wear
The splendour of its presence, and the light
Penetrates their dreamlike frame
Till they become charged with the strength of flame.
Fragment: Rome and Nature
Rome has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin:
Nature is alone undying.
An Ode to Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother's Death
Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Herrick, as yet ;
Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere.
Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest
As dead within the west ;
Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east.
Alas ! for me, that I have lost
E'en all almost ;
Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,
And all the loom of life undone :
The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wall
Whereon my vine did crawl,
Now, now blown down ; needs must the old stock fall.
Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive,
In death I thrive :
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