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Best Famous Angel Poems

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

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by Christina Rossetti | |

In an Artists Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
     One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
     We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel—every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; No as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black.
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger: "It's not very late, you have time to look back At these rose turrets of your native Sodom, The square where you sang, and the yard where you span, The windows looking from your cozy home Where you bore children for your dear man.
" She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all: Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground, Her body turned into a pillar of salt.
Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance.


by William Blake | |

To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks who lookest down 
Through the clear windows of the morning turn 
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle  
Which in full choir hails thy approach O Spring! 

The hills tell one another and the listening 5 
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd 
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth 
And let thy holy feet visit our clime! 

Come o'er the eastern hills and let our winds 
Kiss thy perfum¨¨d garments; let us taste 10 
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls 
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head 15 Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Crucifix

I
This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned.
.
.
?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry.
.
.
" II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance.
.
.
Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother 
takes him strolling 
by railroad and by river 
-he's the son of the absconded 
hot rod angel- 
and he imagines cars 
and rides them in his dreams, 

so lonely growing up among 
the imaginary automobiles 
and dead souls of Tarrytown 

to create 
out of his own imagination 
the beauty of his wild 
forebears-a mythology 
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate his gods? Waking among mysteries with an insane gleam of recollection? The recognition- something so rare in his soul, met only in dreams -nostalgias of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured losing their injury in their innocence -a cock, a cross, an excellence of love.
And the father grieves in flophouse complexities of memory a thousand miles away, unknowing of the unexpected youthful stranger bumming toward his door.
- New York, April 13, 1952


by Philip Larkin | |

Is It For Now Or For Always

 Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting-place,
The woods we have found to walk?

Is it a mirage or miracle,
Your lips that lift at mine:
And the suns like a juggler's juggling-balls,
Are they a sham or a sign?

Shine out, my sudden angel,
Break fear with breast and brow,
I take you now and for always,
For always is always now.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Before The Paling Of The Stars

 Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest cock crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world his hands had made
Born a stranger.
Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem; Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem; Saint and angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather.
Jesus on his mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless lamb of God was he, Shepherd of the fold: Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With saint and angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Dream

 Once a dream did weave a shade,
O'er my Angel-guarded bed.
That an Emmet lost it's way Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled wildered and forlorn Dark benighted travel-worn, Over many a tangled spray, All heart-broke I heard her say.
O my children! do they cry, Do they hear their father sigh.
Now they look abroad to see, Now return and weep for me.
Pitying I dropp'd a tear; But I saw a glow-worm near: Who replied.
What wailing wight Calls the watchman of the night.
I am set to light the ground, While the beetle goes his round: Follow now the beetles hum, Little wanderer hie thee home.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

On Hearing

 O stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die 
In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! 
Stay, for I may not hear on earth again 
Those pious airs--that glorious harmony; 
Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high, 
Worlds without sin or sorrow! Ah, the strain 
Has died--even the last sounds that lingeringly 
Hung on the roof ere they expired! 
And I 
Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng, 
A throng that reckons not of death or sin! 
Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long; 
The worm hears not the discord and the din; 
But he whose heart thrills to this angel song 
Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Credo

 I cannot find my way: there is no star 
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; 
And there is not a whisper in the air 
Of any living voice but one so far 
That I can hear it only as a bar 
Of lost, imperial music, played when fair 
And angel fingers wove, and unaware, 
Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.
No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, The black and awful chaos of the night; For through it all--above, beyond it all-- I know the far sent message of the years, I feel the coming glory of the light.


by George William Russell | |

Dream Love

 I DID not deem it half so sweet
To feel thy gentle hand,
As in a dream thy soul to greet
Across wide leagues of land.
Untouched more near to draw to you Where, amid radiant skies, Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue, My Bird of Paradise.
Let me dream only with my heart, Love first, and after see: Know thy diviner counterpart Before I kneel to thee.
So in thy motions all expressed Thy angel I may view: I shall not on thy beauty rest, But beauty’s self in you.


by George William Russell | |

The Christ-sword

 THE WHILE my mad brain whirled around
She only looked with eyes elate
Immortal love at me.
I found How deep the glance of love can wound, How cruel pity is to hate.
I was begirt with hostile spears: My angel warred in me for you Whose gentle calmness all too fierce Made unseen lightnings to pierce My heart that dripped with ruddy dew.
I know how on the final day The hosts of darkness meet with death: The angels with their love shall slay, Flowing to meet the dark array With terrible yet tender breath.


by George William Russell | |

The Weaver of Souls

 WHO is this unseen messenger
For ever between me and her,
Who brings love’s precious merchandise,
The golden breath, the dew of sighs,
And the wild, gentle thoughts that dwell
Too fragile for the lips to tell,
Each at their birth, to us before
A heaving of the heart is o’er?
Who art thou, unseen messenger?


I think, O Angel of the Lord,
You make our hearts to so accord
That those who hear in after hours
May sigh for love as deep as ours;
And seek the magic that can give
An Eden where the soul may live,
Nor need to walk a road of clay
With stumbling feet, nor fall away
From thee, O Angel of the Lord.


by George William Russell | |

Affinity

 YOU and I have found the secret way,
None can bar our love or say us nay:
All the world may stare and never know
You and I are twined together so.
You and I for all his vaunted width Know the giant Space is but a myth; Over miles and miles of pure deceit You and I have found our lips can meet.
You and I have laughed the leagues apart In the soft delight of heart to heart.
If there’s a gulf to meet or limit set, You and I have never found it yet.
You and I have trod the backward way To the happy heart of yesterday, To the love we felt in ages past.
You and I have found it still to last.
You and I have found the joy had birth In the angel childhood of the earth, Hid within the heart of man and maid.
You and I of Time are not afraid.
You and I can mock his fabled wing, For a kiss is an immortal thing.
And the throb wherein those old lips met Is a living music in us yet.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Amalia

 Angel-fair, Walhalla's charms displaying,
Fairer than all mortal youths was he;
Mild his look, as May-day sunbeams straying
Gently o'er the blue and glassy sea.
And his kisses!--what ecstatic feeling! Like two flames that lovingly entwine, Like the harp's soft tones together stealing Into one sweet harmony divine,-- Soul and soul embraced, commingled, blended, Lips and cheeks with trembling passion burned, Heaven and earth, in pristine chaos ended, Round the blissful lovers madly turn'd.
He is gone--and, ah! with bitter anguish Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs; He is gone--in hopeless grief I languish Earthly joys I ne'er again can prize!


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Maid Of Orleans

 Humanity's bright image to impair.
Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust; Wit wages ceaseless war on all that's fair,-- In angel and in God it puts no trust; The bosom's treasures it would make its prey,-- Besieges fancy,--dims e'en faith's pure ray.
Yet issuing like thyself from humble line, Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she-- Sweet poesy affords her rights divine, And to the stars eternal soars with thee.
Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown; The heart 'twas formed thee,--ever thou'lt live on! The world delights whate'er is bright to stain, And in the dust to lay the glorious low; Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain, That for the lofty, for the radiant glow Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth; A nobler mind loves forms of nobler worth.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

To A Moralist

 Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumbed with the winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms-- All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation.
Learn this--that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,--quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,-- But it cannot make gods of us--No! It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men.
The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;--if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man!


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

In San Lorenzo

 Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering Night?
Hath not the Dawn a message in thine ear?
Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt thou hear
When the word falls from heaven--Let there be light.
Thou knowest we would not do thee the despite To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame were near; We spake not loud for thy sake, and for fear Lest thou shouldst lose the rest that was thy right, The blessing given thee that was thine alone, The happiness to sleep and to be stone: Nay, we kept silence of thee for thy sake Albeit we knew thee alive, and left with thee The great good gift to feel not nor to see; But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake?


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet to the Memory of Miss Maria Linley

 So bends beneath the storm yon balmy flow'r,
Whose spicy blossoms once perfum'd the gale;
So press'd with tears reclines yon lily pale,
Obedient to the rude and beating show'r.
Still is the LARK, that hov'ring o'er yon spray, With jocund carol usher'd in the morn; And mute the NIGHTINGALE, whose tender lay Melted the feeling mind with sounds forlorn: More sweet, MARIA, was thy plaintive strain! That strain is o'er; but mem'ry ne'er shall fade, When erst it cheer'd grey twilight's dreary shade, And charm'd the sorrow-stricken soul from pain; STILL, STILL, melodious maid, thy dulcet song Shall breathe, immortal, on an ANGEL'S TONGUE!


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Echo to Him Who Complains

 O FLY thee from the shades of night,
Where the loud tempests yelling rise; 
Where horrror wings her sullen flight
Beneath the bleak and lurid skies.
As the pale light'ning swiftly gleams O'er the scorch'd wood, thy well-known form More radiant than an angel seems, Contending with the ruthless storm.
I see the scowling witch, DESPAIR Drink the big tear that scalds thy cheek; While thro' the dark and turbid air, The screams of haggard ENVY break.
From the cold mountain's flinty steep, I hear the dashing waters roar; Ah! turn thee, turn thee, cease to weep, Thou hast no reason to deplore.
See fell DESPAIR expiring fall, See ENVY from thy glances start; No more shall howling blasts appall, Or with'ring grief corrode thy heart.
See FRIENDSHIP from her azure eye Drops the fond balm for ev'ry pain She comes, the offspring of the sky, "TO RAZE THE TROUBLES OF THE brain.
"