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Best Famous Laurence Binyon Poems

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

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by Laurence Binyon | |

O World be Nobler

 O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake! 
 If she but knew thee what thou art, 
What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done 
In thee, beneath thy daily sun, 
 Know'st thou not that her tender heart 
For pain and very shame would break? 
O World, be nobler, for her sake!


by Laurence Binyon | |

Nothing is enough!

 No, though our all be spent-- 
Heart's extremest love, 
Spirit's whole intent, 
All that nerve can feel, 
All that brain invent,-- 
Still beyond appeal 
Will Divine Desire 
Yet more excellent 
Precious cost require 
Of this mortal stuff,-- 
Never be content 
Till ourselves be fire.
Nothing is enough!


by Laurence Binyon | |

Men of Verdun

 There are five men in the moonlight
That by their shadows stand;
Three hobble humped on crutches,
And two lack each a hand.
Frogs somewhere near the roadside Chorus their chant absorbed: But a hush breathes out of the dream-light That far in heaven is orbed.
It is gentle as sleep falling And wide as thought can span, The ancient peace and wonder That brims in the heart of man.
Beyond the hills it shines now On no peace but the dead, On reek of trenches thunder-shocked, Tense fury of wills in wrestle locked, A chaos of crumbled red.


by Laurence Binyon | |

In the High Leaves of a Walnut

 In the high leaves of a walnut, 
On the very topmost boughs, 
A boy that climbed the branching bole 
His cradled limbs would house.
On the airy bed that rocked him Long, idle hours he'd lie Alone with white clouds sailing The warm blue of the sky.
I remember not what his dreams were; But the scent of a leaf's enough To house me higher than those high boughs In a youth he knew not of, In a light that no day brings now But none can spoil or smutch, A magic that I felt not then And only now I touch.


by Laurence Binyon | |

In the shadow of a broken house

 In the shadow of a broken house, 
Down a deserted street, 
Propt walls, cold hearths, and phantom stairs, 
And the silence of dead feet —
Locked wildly in one another's arms 
I saw two lovers meet.
And over that hearthless house aghast Rose from the mind's abyss Lost stars and ruined, peering moons, Worlds overshadowing this, — Time's stony palace crumbled down Before that instant kiss.


by Laurence Binyon | |

Invocation to Youth

 COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning! 
 Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew 
Freshness to feel the eternities around it, 
 Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.
The strong sun shines above thee: That strength, that radiance bring! If Winter come to Winter, When shall men hope for Spring?


by Laurence Binyon | |

A Song

 For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth, 
There is no measure upon earth.
Nay, they wither, root and stem, If an end be set to them.
Overbrim and overflow, If you own heart you would know; For the spirit born to bless Lives but in its own excess


by Laurence Binyon | |

The House That Was

 Of the old house, only a few, crumbled 
Courses of brick, smothered in nettle and dock, 
Or a shaped stone lying mossy where it tumbled! 
Sprawling bramble and saucy thistle mock 
What once was fire-lit floor and private charm, 
Whence, seen in a windowed picture, were hills fading 
At night, and all was memory-coloured and warm, 
And voices talked, secure of the wind's invading.
Of the old garden, only a stray shining Of daffodil flames among April's Cuckoo-flowers Or clustered aconite, mixt with weeds entwining! But, dark and lofty, a royal cedar towers By homelier thorns; and whether the rain drifts Or sun scortches, he holds the downs in ken, The western vales; his branchy tiers he lifts, Older than many a generation of men.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Rain Was Ending And Light

 The rain was ending, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
It shone upon ceiling and floor And dazzled a child's eyes.
Pale after fever, a captive Apart from his schoolfellows, He stood at the high room's window With face to the pane pressed close, And beheld an immense glory Flooding with fire the drops Spilled on miraculous leaves Of the fresh green lime-tree tops.
Washed gravel glittered red To a wall, and beyond it nine Tall limes in the old inn yard Rose over the tall inn sign.
And voices arose from beneath Of boys from school set free, Racing and chasing each other With laughter and games and glee.
To the boy at the high room-window, Gazing alone and apart, There came a wish without reason, A thought that shone through his heart.
I'll choose this moment and keep it, He said to himself, for a vow, To remember for ever and ever As if it were always now.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Woods Entry

 So old is the wood, so old, 
Old as Fear.
Wrinkled roots; great stems; hushed leaves; No sound near.
Shadows retreat into shadow, Deepening, crossed.
Burning light singles a low leaf, a bough, Far within, lost.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Zeppelin

 Guns! far and near 
Quick, sudden, angry, 
They startle the still street, 
Upturned faces appear, 
Doors open on darkness, 
There is a hurrying of feet, 
And whirled athwart gloom 
White fingers of alarm 
Point at last there 
Where illumined and dumb 
A shape suspended 
Hovers, a demon of the starry air! 
Strange and cold as a dream 
Of sinister fancy, 
It charms like a snake, 
Poised deadly in the gleam, 
While bright explosions 
Leap up to it and break.
Is it terror you seek To exult in? Know then Hearts are here That the plunging beak Of night-winged murder Strikes not with fear So much as it strings To a deep elation And a quivering pride That at last the hour brings For them too the danger Of those who died, Of those who yet fight Spending for each of us Their glorious blood In the foreign night.
— That now we are neared to them Thank we God.


by Laurence Binyon | |

A Song

 Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace
Sends up my soul to seek thy face.
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire, I dy in love’s delicious Fire.
O love, I am thy Sacrifice.
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes.
Still shine on me, fair suns! that I Still may behold, though still I dy.
Though still I dy, I live again; Still longing so to be still slain, So gainfull is such losse of breath.
I dy even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife Of living Death and dying Life.
For while thou sweetly slayest me Dead to my selfe, I live in Thee.


by Laurence Binyon | |

A Song

 Persuade me not, there is a Grace 
Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute, 
Against Miranda's charming Face 
To make her hold the least Dispute.
Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love, And stirs up all our soft Desires, Do's but the glowing Flame improve, Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires.
Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings I to Miranda, standing by, Impute the Music of the Strings, And all the melting Words apply