Contemplative poems

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

Poem language

Any author

Keywords

With audio

Sort

Emily Dickinson

Snow beneath whose chilly softness

Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Winter I admonish Thee Blanket Wealthier the Neighbor We so new bestow Than thine acclimated Creature Wilt Thou, Austere Snow?

Emily Dickinson

I prayed, at first, a little Girl,

I prayed, at first, a little Girl, Because they told me to -- But stopped, when qualified to guess How prayer would feel -- to me -- If I believed God looked around, Each time my Childish eye Fixed full, and steady, on his own In Childish honesty -- And told him what I'd like, today, And parts of his far plan That baffled me -- The mingled side Of his Divinity -- And often since, in Danger, I count the force 'twould be To have a God so strong as that

Emily Dickinson

We should not mind so small a flower

We should not mind so small a flower -- Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the Lawn again. So spicy her Carnations nod -- So drunken, reel her Bees -- So silver steal a hundred flutes From out a hundred trees -- That whoso sees this little flower By faith may clear behold The Bobolinks around the throne And Dandelions gold.

Emily Dickinson

I know of people in the Grave

I know of people in the Grave Who would be very glad To know the news I know tonight If they the chance had had. 'Tis this expands the least event And swells the scantest deed -- My right to walk upon the Earth If they this moment had.

Emily Dickinson

The Veins of other Flowers

The Veins of other Flowers The Scarlet Flowers are Till Nature leisure has for Terms As "Branch," and "Jugular." We pass, and she abides. We conjugate Her Skill While She creates and federates Without a syllable.

Emily Dickinson

One Day is there of the Series

One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory. Neither Patriarch nor Pussy I dissect the Play Seems it to my Hooded thinking Reflex Holiday. Had there been no sharp Subtraction From the early Sum -- Not an Acre or a Caption Where was once a Room -- Not a Mention, whose small Pebble Wrinkled any Sea, Unto Such, were such Assembly 'Twere Thanksgiving Day.

Emily Dickinson

To her derided Home

To her derided Home A Weed of Summer came -- She did not know her station low Nor Ignominy's Name -- Bestowed a summer long Upon a frameless flower -- Then swept as lightly from disdain As Lady from her Bower -- Of Bliss the Codes are few -- As Jesus cites of Him -- "Come unto me" the moiety That wafts the Seraphim --

Emily Dickinson

Each Life Converges to some Centre --

Each Life Converges to some Centre -- Expressed -- or still -- Exists in every Human Nature A Goal -- Embodied scarcely to itself -- it may be -- Too fair For Credibility's presumption To mar -- Adored with caution -- as a Brittle Heaven -- To reach Were hopeless, as the Rainbow's Raiment To touch -- Yet persevered toward -- sure -- for the Distance -- How high -- Unto the Saint's slow diligence -- The Sky --

Emily Dickinson

The good Will of a Flower

The good Will of a Flower The Man who would possess Must first present Certificate Of minted Holiness.

Emily Dickinson

Summer -- we all have seen --

Summer -- we all have seen -- A few of us -- believed -- A few -- the more aspiring Unquestionably loved -- But Summer does not care -- She goes her spacious way As eligible as the moon To our Temerity -- The Doom to be adored -- The Affluence conferred -- Unknown as to an Ecstasy The Embryo endowed --

Emily Dickinson

Death is a Dialogue between

Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. "Dissolve" says Death -- The Spirit "Sir I have another Trust" -- Death doubts it -- Argues from the Ground -- The Spirit turns away Just laying off for evidence An Overcoat of Clay.

Emily Dickinson

Who were "the Father and the Son"

Who were "the Father and the Son" We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling By Childhood fortified We thought, at least they are no worse Than they have been described. Who are "the Father and the Son" Did we demand Today "The Father and the Son" himself Would doubtless specify -- But had they the felicity When we desired to know. We better Friends had been, perhaps, Than time ensue to be --

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: