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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.


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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 | |

For the Fallen

 With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Burning of the Leaves

 Now is the time for the burning of the leaves, 
They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke 
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves! A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock’s fallen tower is dust: All the spices of June are a bitter reek, All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare, Time for the burning of days ended and done, Idle solace of things that have gone before, Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there: Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour, And magical scents to a wondering memory bring; The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Children Dancing

 Away, sad thoughts, and teasing 
Perplexities, away! 
Let other blood go freezing, 
We will be wise and gay.
For here is all heart-easing, An ecstasy at play.
The children dancing, dancing, Light upon happy feet, Both eye and heart entrancing Mingle, escape, and meet; Come joyous-eyed and advancing Or floatingly retreat.
Now slow, now swifter treading Their paces timed and true, An instant poised, then threading A maze of printless clue, Their motions smoothly wedding To melody anew, They sway in chime, and scatter In looping circles; they Are Music's airy matter, And their feet move, the way The raindrops shine and patter On tossing flowers in May.
As if those flowers were singing For joy of the clean air, As if you saw them springing To dance the breeze, so fair The lissom bodies swinging, So light the flung-back hair.
And through the mind enchanted A happy river goes By its own young carol haunted And bringing where it flows What all in the world has wanted And who in this world knows?


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Healers

 In a vision of the night I saw them, 
In the battles of the night.
'Mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood They were moving like light, Light of the reason, guarded Tense within the will, As a lantern under a tossing of boughs Burns steady and still.
With scrutiny calm, and with fingers Patient as swift They bind up the hurts and the pain-writhen Bodies uplift, Untired and defenceless; around them With shrieks in its breath Bursts stark from the terrible horizon Impersonal death; But they take not their courage from anger That blinds the hot being; They take not their pity from weakness; Tender, yet seeing; Feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost; Keen, like steel; Yet the wounds of the mind they are stricken with, Who shall heal? They endure to have eyes of the watcher In hell, and not swerve For an hour from the faith that they follow, The light that they serve.
Man true to man, to his kindness That overflows all, To his spirit erect in the thunder When all his forts fall, — This light, in the tiger-mad welter, They serve and they save.
What song shall be worthy to sing of them — Braver than the brave?


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 | |

To the Belgians

 O race that Cæsar knew, 
That won stern Roman praise, 
What land not envies you 
The laurel of these days? 
You build your cities rich 
Around each towered hall, —
Without, the statued niche, 
Within, the pictured wall.
Your ship-thronged wharves, your marts With gorgeious Venice vied, Peace and her famous arts Were yours: though tide on tide Of Europe's battle scourged Black fields and reddened soil, From blood and smoke emerged Peace and her fruitful toil.
Yet when the challenge rang, "The War-Lord comes; give room!" Fearless to arms you sprang Agains the odds of doom.
Like your own Damien Who sought that leper's isle To die a simple man For men with tranquil smile, So strong in faith you dared Defy the giant, scorn Ignobly to be spared, Though trampled, spoiled, and torn, And in your faith arose And smote, and smote again, Till those astonished foes Reeled from their mounds of slain, The faith that the free soul, Untaught by force to quail, Through fire and dirge and dole Prevails, and shall prevail.
Still for your frontier stands The host that knew no dread, Your little, stubborn land's Nameless, immortal dead.


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