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Best Famous Charles Sorley Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Charles Sorley poems. This is a select list of the best famous Charles Sorley poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Charles Sorley poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Charles Sorley poems.

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by Charles Sorley | |

Rooks

 There where the rusty iron lies,
The rooks are cawing all the day.
Perhaps no man, until he dies, Will understand them, what they say.
The evening makes the sky like clay.
The slow wind waits for night to rise.
The world is half content.
But they Still trouble all the trees with cries, That know, and cannot put away, The yearning to the soul that flies From day to night, from night to day.


by Charles Sorley | |

Saints Have Adored the Lofty Soul of You

 Saints have adored the lofty soul of you.
Poets have whitened at your high renown.
We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down.
You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware.
But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.
I think it like that signpost in my land Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.


by Charles Sorley | |

The Song of the Ungirt Runners

 We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust Nor whitherward we fare, But we run because we must Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause? Do the tree-tops ask it why? So we run without a cause 'Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it And scatter it like sand, And we run because we like it Through the broad bright land.


by Charles Sorley | |

Expectans Expectavi

 From morn to midnight, all day through,
 I laugh and play as others do,
 I sin and chatter, just the same
 As others with a different name.
And all year long upon the stage I dance and tumble and do rage So vehemently, I scarcely see The inner and eternal me.
I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine -- and yet, and yet This sanctuary of my soul Unwitting I keep white and whole, Unlatched and lit, if Thou should'st care To enter or to tarry there.
With parted lips and outstretched hands And listening ears Thy servant stands, Call Thou early, call Thou late, To Thy great service dedicate.


by Charles Sorley | |

Such Such Is Death

 Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
A merciful putting away of what has been.
And this we know: Death is not Life, effete, Life crushed, the broken pail.
We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.
Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe.
Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete.
And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.


by Charles Sorley | |

When You See Millions Of The Mouthless Dead

 When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember.
For you need not so.
Give them not praise.
For, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears.
Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour.
It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, "They are dead.
" The add thereto, "Yet many a better one has died before.
" Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, It is a spook.
None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.


by Charles Sorley | |

The Song of the Ungirt Runners

 We swing ungirded hips,
 And lightened are our eyes,
 The rain is on our lips,
 We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust Nor whitherward we fare, But we run because we must Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause? Do the tree-tops ask it why? So we run without a cause 'Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it And scatter it like sand, And we run because we like it Through the broad bright land.


by Charles Sorley | |

To Germany

 You are blind like us.
Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each others dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate.
And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again With new won eyes each other's truer form and wonder.
Grown more loving kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace.
But until peace, the storm, The darkness and the thunder and the rain.


by Charles Sorley | |

The Army of Death

 When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember.
For you need not so.
Give them not praise.
For, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears.
Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour.
It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, "They are dead.
" Then add thereto, "Yet many a better one has died before.
" Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, It is a spook.
None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.