Contemplative poems

Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on Poemship.

ContemplativeAnne Kingsmill Finch

The Dog And His Master

NO better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor; But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh, Nor let pretended Friends pass fearless by: For which reprov'd, as better Fed than Taught, He rightly thus expostulates the Fault. To keep the House from Rascals was my Charge; The Task was great, and the Commission large. Nor did your Worship e'er declare your Mind, That to the begging Crew it was confin'd; Who shrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee, Or turn up Eyes, till they're not seen, nor see. To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth, And fairly stake their Necks against your Wealth, These are the known Delinquents of the Times,
ContemplativeAnne Kingsmill Finch

Hope

The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov'd; The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd: Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant, Which either Heav'n, or Paradise cou'd want. Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin'd, And Cordial only to the Human Mind. Receive it then, t'expel these mortal Cares, Nor wave a Med'cine, which thy God prepares.
ContemplativeAnne Kingsmill Finch

Life's Progress

How gayly is at first begun Our Life's uncertain Race! Whilst yet that sprightly Morning Sun, With which we just set out to run Enlightens all the Place. How smiling the World's Prospect lies How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, Did more inviting shew. How promising's the Book of Fate, Till thoroughly understood! Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, As may the youthful Fancy treat With all that's Great and Good. How soft the first Ideas prove,
ContemplativeAnne Kingsmill Finch

The Man And His Horse

Within a Meadow, on the way, A sordid Churl resolv'd to stay, And give his Horse a Bite; Purloining so his Neighbours Hay, That at the Inn he might not pay For Forage all the Night. With Heart's content th' unloaded Steed Began to neigh, and frisk, and feed; For nothing more he car'd, Since none of all his Master's breed E'er found such Pasture, at their need, Or half so well had far'd. When, in the turning of a Hand, Out comes the Owner of the Land, And do's the Trespass eye; Which puts poor Bayard to a Stand,
ContemplativeAnne Bronte

Home

How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs: Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise; Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well.
ContemplativeAnne Bronte

Lines Written From Home

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground With fallen leaves so thickly strown, And cold the wind that wanders round With wild and melancholy moan; There is a friendly roof, I know, Might shield me from the wintry blast; There is a fire, whose ruddy glow Will cheer me for my wanderings past. And so, though still, where'er I go, Cold stranger-glances meet my eye; Though, when my spirit sinks in woe, Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh; Though solitude, endured too long, Bids youthful joys too soon decay, Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue, And overclouds my noon of day;
ContemplativeAnne Bronte

Monday Night May 11th 1846 / Domestic Peace

Why should such gloomy silence reign; And why is all the house so drear, When neither danger, sickness, pain, Nor death, nor want have entered here? We are as many as we were That other night, when all were gay, And full of hope, and free from care; Yet, is there something gone away. The moon without as pure and calm Is shining as that night she shone; but now, to us she brings no balm, For something from our hearts is gone. Something whose absence leaves a void, A cheerless want in every heart. Each feels the bliss of all destroyed And mourns the change - but each apart.
ContemplativeAnne Bronte

Retirement

O, let me be alone a while, No human form is nigh. And may I sing and muse aloud, No mortal ear is by. Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss, Ye earthly cares begone: Depart! ye restless wandering thoughts, And let me be alone! One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings, And quit this joyless sod, Bask in the sunshine of the sky, And be alone with God!
ContemplativeAnne Bradstreet

In Thankful Remembrance for My Dear Husband's Safe Arrival

What shall I render to Thy name Or how Thy praises speak? My thanks how shall I testify? O Lord, Thou know'st I'm weak. I owe so much, so little can Return unto Thy name, Confusion seizes on my soul, And I am filled with shame. O Thou that hearest prayers, Lord, To Thee shall come all flesh Thou hast me heard and answered, My plaints have had access. What did I ask for but Thou gav'st? What could I more desire? But thankfulness even all my days I humbly this require.
ContemplativeAnne Bradstreet

To Her Father with Some Verses

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear, If worth in me or ought I do appear, Who can of right better demand the same Than may your worthy self from whom it came? The principal might yield a greater sum, Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb; My stock's so small I know not how to pay, My bond remains in force unto this day; Yet for part payment take this simple mite, Where nothing's to be had, kings loose their right. Such is my debt I may not say forgive, But as I can, I'll pay it while I live; Such is my bond, none can discharge but I, Yet paying is not paid until I die.
ContemplativeAmy Levy

A London Plane-Tree

Green is the plane-tree in the square, The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country air; The plane-tree loves the town. Here from my garret-pane, I mark The plane-tree bud and blow, Shed her recuperative bark, And spread her shade below. Among her branches, in and out, The city breezes play; The dun fog wraps her round about; Above, the smoke curls grey. Others the country take for choice, And hold the town in scorn; But she has listened to the voice On city breezes borne.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: