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Best Famous Devotion Poems

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

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Written by Robert Frost |


 The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean--
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

Written by Vachel Lindsay |

How a Little Girl Danced


(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.
) Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer, Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain: Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.
Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer, Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain, I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain, A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel, With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.
Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus, Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain: I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia, A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:— The music of God is her innermost brooding, The whispering angels her footsteps sustain.
Oh, proud Russian dancer: praise for your dancing.
No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign.
You dance for Apollo with noble devotion, A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane.
But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit More white than Apollo and all of his train.
I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead, Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain.
I know a dancer, I know a dancer, Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain: Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer, With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

Written by Sir Walter Raleigh |

The Lie

 Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honour how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favour how it falters: And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell manhood shakes off pity And virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.

More great poems below...

Written by Robert William Service |


 Ten little brown chicks scattered and scuffled,
Under the blue-berries hiding in fear;
Mother-grouse cackling, feathers all ruffled,
Dashed to defend them as we drew near.
Heart of a heroine, how I admired her! Of such devotion great poets have sung; Homes have been blest by the love that inspired her, Risking her life for the sake of her young.
Ten little chicks on her valour reliant, Peered with bright eyes from the bilberry spray; Fiercely she faced us, dismayed but defiant, Rushed at us bravely to scare us away.
Then my companion, a crazy young devil (After, he told me he'd done it for fun) Pretended to tremble, and raised his arm level, And ere I could check him he blazed with his gun.
Headless she lay, from her neck the blood spouted, And dappled her plumage, the poor, pretty thing! Ten little chicks - oh, I know for I counted, Came out and they tried to creep under her wing.
Sickened I said: "Here's an end to my killing; I swear, nevermore bird or beast will I slay; Starving I may be, but no more blood-spilling .
" That oath I have kept, and I keep it to-day.

Written by Alan Seeger |

The Need to Love

 The need to love that all the stars obey
Entered my heart and banished all beside.
Bare were the gardens where I used to stray; Faded the flowers that one time satisfied.
Before the beauty of the west on fire, The moonlit hills from cloister-casements viewed Cloud-like arose the image of desire, And cast out peace and maddened solitude.
I sought the City and the hopes it held: With smoke and brooding vapors intercurled, As the thick roofs and walls close-paralleled Shut out the fair horizons of the world--- A truant from the fields and rustic joy, In my changed thought that image even so Shut out the gods I worshipped as a boy And all the pure delights I used to know.
Often the veil has trembled at some tide Of lovely reminiscence and revealed How much of beauty Nature holds beside Sweet lips that sacrifice and arms that yield: Clouds, window-framed, beyond the huddled eaves When summer cumulates their golden chains, Or from the parks the smell of burning leaves, Fragrant of childhood in the country lanes, An organ-grinder's melancholy tune In rainy streets, or from an attic sill The blue skies of a windy afternoon Where our kites climbed once from some grassy hill: And my soul once more would be wrapped entire In the pure peace and blessing of those years.
Before the fierce infection of Desire Had ravaged all the flesh.
Through starting tears Shone that lost Paradise; but, if it did, Again ere long the prison-shades would fall That Youth condemns itself to walk amid, So narrow, but so beautiful withal.
And I have followed Fame with less devotion, And kept no real ambition but to see Rise from the foam of Nature's sunlit ocean My dream of palpable divinity; And aught the world contends for to mine eye Seemed not so real a meaning of success As only once to clasp before I die My vision of embodied happiness.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

A Hymn for Christmas Day

 Almighty Framer of the Skies! 
O let our pure devotion rise, 
Like Incense in thy Sight! 
Wrapt in impenetrable Shade 
The Texture of our Souls were made 
Till thy Command gave light.
The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray, Refin'd the Darkness into Day, And bid the Vapours fly; Impell'd by his eternal Love He left his Palaces above To cheer our gloomy Sky.
How shall we celebrate the day, When God appeared in mortal clay, The mark of worldly scorn; When the Archangel's heavenly Lays, Attempted the Redeemer's Praise And hail'd Salvation's Morn! A Humble Form the Godhead wore, The Pains of Poverty he bore, To gaudy Pomp unknown; Tho' in a human walk he trod Still was the Man Almighty God In Glory all his own.
Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears The Torments of this Vale of tears; Nor bade his Vengeance rise; He saw the Creatures he had made, Revile his Power, his Peace invade; He saw with Mercy's Eyes.
How shall we celebrate his Name, Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame In all Afflictions tried! The Soul is raptured to concieve A Truth, which Being must believe, The God Eternal died.
My Soul exert thy Powers, adore, Upon Devotion's plumage sar To celebrate the Day; The God from whom Creation sprung Shall animate my grateful Tongue; From him I'll catch the Lay!

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley |

I fear thy kisses gentle maiden

I FEAR thy kisses gentle maiden; 
Thou needest not fear mine; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine.
I fear thy mien thy tones thy motion; 5 Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine.

Written by Les Murray |

Travels With John Hunter

 We who travel between worlds 
lose our muscle and bone.
I was wheeling a barrow of earth when agony bayoneted me.
I could not sit, or lie down, or stand, in Casualty.
Stomach-calming clay caked my lips, I turned yellow as the moon and slid inside a CAT-scan wheel in a hospital where I met no one so much was my liver now my dire preoccupation.
I was sped down a road.
of treetops and fishing-rod lightpoles towards the three persons of God and the three persons of John Hunter Hospital.
Who said We might lose this one.
Twenty days or to the heat-death of the Universe have the same duration: vaguely half a hour.
I awoke giggling over a joke about Paul Kruger in Johannesburg and missed the white court stockings I half remembered from my prone still voyage beyond flesh and bone.
I asked my friend who got new lungs How long were you crazy, coming back? Five days, he said.
Violent and mad.
Fictive Afrikaner police were at him, not unworldly Oom Paul Kruger.
Valerie, who had sat the twenty days beside me, now gently told me tales of my time-warp.
The operative canyon stretched, stapled, with dry roseate walls down my belly.
Seaweed gel plugged views of my pluck and offal.
The only poet whose liver damage hadn't been self-inflicted, grinned my agent.
A momentarily holed bowel had released flora who live in us and will eat us when we stop feeding them the earth.
I had, it did seem, rehearsed the private office of the grave, ceased excreting, made corpse gases all while liana'd in tubes and overseen by cockpit instruments that beeped or struck up Beethoven's Fifth at behests of fluid.
I also hear when I lay lipless and far away I was anointed first by a mild metaphoric church then by the Church of no metaphors.
Now I said, signing a Dutch contract in a hand I couldn't recognise, let's go and eat Chinese soup and drive to Lake Macquarie.
Was I not renewed as we are in Heaven? In fact I could hardly endure Earth gravity, and stayed weak and cranky till the soup came, squid and vegetables, pure Yang.
And was sane thereafter.
It seemed I'd also travelled in a Spring-in-Winter love-barque of cards, of flowers and phone calls and letters, concern I'd never dreamed was there when black kelp boiled in my head.
I'd awoken amid my State funeral, nevermore to eat my liver or feed it to the Black Dog, depression which the three Johns Hunter seem to have killed with their scalpels: it hasn't found its way home, where I now dodder and mend in thanks for devotion, for the ambulance this time, for the hospital fork lift, for pethidine, and this face of deity: not the foreknowledge of death but the project of seeing conscious life rescued from death defines and will atone for the human.

Written by Richard Brautigan |

Love Poem

 My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.
Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror, Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars— Misfit in any space.
And never on time.
A wrench in clocks and the solar system.
Only With words and people and love you move at ease; In traffic of wit expertly maneuver And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.
Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel, Your lipstick grinning on our coat, So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.
Be with me, darling, early and late.
Smash glasses— I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty All the toys of the world would break.

Written by George (Lord) Byron |

Loves Last Adieu

 The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ?Our meeting we yet may renew:?
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill'd by the winter of Love's last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?---to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love's easy chains,
Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
No more, with Love's former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love's last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp'd at Love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love's last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love's last adieu!

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley |

One word is too often profaned

ONE word is too often profaned 
For me to profane it  
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair 5 For prudence to smother And pity from thee more dear Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not 10 The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star Of the night for the morrow The devotion to something afar 15 From the sphere of our sorrow?

Written by Siegfried Sassoon |

The Imperfect Lover

 I never asked you to be perfect—did I?— 
Though often I’ve called you sweet, in the invasion 
Of mastering love.
I never prayed that you Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman, Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.
Oh yes, I know the way to heaven was easy.
We found the little kingdom of our passion That all can share who walk the road of lovers.
In wild and secret happiness we stumbled; And gods and demons clamoured in our senses.
But I’ve grown thoughtful now.
And you have lost Your early-morning freshness of surprise At being so utterly mine: you’ve learned to fear The gloomy, stricken places in my soul, And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.
You made me glad; and I can still return To you, the haven of my lonely pride: But I am sworn to murder those illusions That blossom from desire with desperate beauty: And there shall be no falsehood in our failure; Since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done, And I’ll not hide it, though our heaven be hell.
You dream long liturgies of our devotion.
Yet, in my heart, I dread our love’s destruction.
But, should you grow to hate me, I would ask No mercy of your mood: I’d have you stand And look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me.
Then I should know, at least, that truth endured, Though love had died of wounds.
And you could leave me Unvanquished in my atmosphere of devils.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

Morning along Shore

 Hark, oh hark the elfin laughter
All the little waves along,
As if echoes speeding after
Mocked a merry merman's song! 

All the gulls are out, delighting
In a wild, uncharted quest­
See the first red sunshine smiting
Silver sheen of wing and breast! 

Ho, the sunrise rainbow-hearted
Steals athwart the misty brine,
And the sky where clouds have parted
Is a bowl of amber wine! 

Sweet, its cradle-lilt partaking,
Dreams that hover o'er the sea,
But the lyric of its waking
Is a sweeter thing to me! 

Who would drowze in dull devotion
To his ease when dark is done,
And upon its breast the ocean
Like a jewel wears the sun? 

"Up, forsake a lazy pillow!" 
Calls the sea from cleft and cave,
Ho, for antic wind and billow
When the morn is on the wave!

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |


 KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer 
for laurel
May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us;
Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting
High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour!
Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together,
Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one:
There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his 
Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent
And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation
There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering
Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.

Written by Eugene Field |

Apple-Pie and Cheese

 Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores! What profanations these That seek to dim the glories Of apple-pie and cheese! I'm glad my education Enables me to stand Against the vile temptation Held out on every hand; Eschewing all the tittles With vanity replete, I'm loyal to the victuals Our grandsires used to eat! I'm glad I've got three willing boys To hang around and tease Their mother for the filling joys Of apple-pie and cheese! Your flavored creams and ices And your dainty angel-food Are mighty fine devices To regale the dainty dude; Your terrapin and oysters, With wine to wash 'em down, Are just the thing for roisters When painting of the town; No flippant, sugared notion Shall my appetite appease, Or bate my soul's devotion To apple-pie and cheese! The pie my Julia makes me (God bless her Yankee ways!) On memory's pinions takes me To dear Green Mountain days; And seems like I see Mother Lean on the window-sill, A-handin' me and brother What she knows 'll keep us still; And these feelings are so grateful, Says I, "Julia, if you please, I'll take another plateful Of that apple-pie and cheese!" And cheese! No alien it, sir, That's brought across the sea,-- No Dutch antique, nor Switzer, Nor glutinous de Brie; There's nothing I abhor so As mawmets of this ilk-- Give me the harmless morceau That's made of true-blue milk! No matter what conditions Dyspeptic come to feaze, The best of all physicians Is apple-pie and cheese! Though ribalds may decry 'em, For these twin boons we stand, Partaking thrice per diem Of their fulness out of hand; No enervating fashion Shall cheat us of our right To gratify our passion With a mouthful at a bite! We'll cut it square or bias, Or any way we please, And faith shall justify us When we carve our pie and cheese! De gustibus, 't is stated, Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated, That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em The vapid sweets of sin, I will not disabuse 'em Of the heresy they're in; But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese!