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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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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


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Written by Charles Sorley | |

Barbury Camp

 We burrowed night and day with tools of lead,
Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring
And hurled the earth above.
And Caesar said, “Why, it is excellent.
I like the thing.
” We, who are dead, Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing.
And here we strove, and here we felt each vein Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long.
And here we held communion with the rain That lashed us into manhood with its thong, Cleansing through pain.
And the wind visited us and made us strong.
Up from around us, numbers without name, Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand Pressing us in, they came.
And the wind came And bitter rain, turning grey all the land.
That was our game, To fight with men and storms, and it was grand.
For many days we fought them, and our sweat Watered the grass, making it spring up green, Blooming for us.
And, if the wind was wet, Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen With the hatred And wrath and courage that our blood had been.
So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell Where we fought.
And God said, “Killed at last then? What! Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell, (God said) stir not.
This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell.
” So again we fight and wrestle, and again Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring.
But when the wind comes up, driving the rain (Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolling Up from the plain, This wild procession, this impetuous thing.
Hold us amazed.
We mount the wind-cars, then Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world, Searching to find somewhere some brethren, Sons of the winds and waters of the world.
We, who were men, Have sought, and found no men in all this world.
Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly, Bringing, if any man can understand, Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand, Wind that is we (We that were men)—make men in all this land, That so may live and wrestle and hate that when They fall at last exultant, as we fell, And come to God, God may say, “Do you come then Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell? Why! Ye were men! Back to your winds and rains.
Be these your heaven and hell!”


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written by Charles Sorley | |

All the Hills and Vales Along

 All the hills and vales along
 Earth is bursting into song,
 And the singers are the chaps
 Who are going to die perhaps.
O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again.
Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to.
Little live, great pass.
Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day.
This died, that went his way.
So sing with joyful breath, For why, you are going to death.
Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.
Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad 'Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you.
Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of sing Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth's reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead.


Written 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.


Written by Charles Sorley | |

Two Sonnets

 I

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.
II 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.