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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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.


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?


by Wang Wei | |

TO QIWU QIAN BOUND HOME AFTER FAILING IN AN EXAMINATION

In a happy reign there should be no hermits; 
The wise and able should consult together.
.
.
.
So you, a man of the eastern mountains, Gave up your life of picking herbs And came all the way to the Gate of Gold -- But you found your devotion unavailing.
.
.
.
To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers, You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital -- Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood You will float again toward your own thatch door, Led along by distant trees To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
.
.
.
What though your purpose happened to fail, Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.


More great poems below...

by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Magnet

"Spirituality is a magnet, and the magnet attracts iron, not wood or stone.
Similarly, faith and devotion is an iron, who has that, spirituality will attract him, not an unbeliever.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Like An Angel

You are like an angel
You have lovely heart, decent thoughts
Your way of expression
And style of selection
Have made an special place
In my heart
In which resides a pure love
That you have achieved
My love and devotion, today and forever
I promise it remains only for you
No matter we see and meet each other or not
O' my love, my dear it is my wish
Be happy and blessed in every way of life.
------------
Ehsan Sehgal?


by Anonymous | |

GOD IS IN HIS HOLY TEMPLE.

God is in His holy temple;
Thoughts of earth be silent now,
While with reverence we assemble,
And before His presence bow.
He is with us, now and ever,
While we call upon His name,
Aiding every good endeavor,
Guiding every upward aim.
God is in His holy temple,—
In the pure and humble mind;
In the reverent heart and simple;
In the soul from sense refined.
Then let every low emotion
Banished far and silent be;
And our hearts in pure devotion,
Lord, be temples worthy Thee.
[Pg 024]


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Dedication

 To W.
R.
B.
And so, to you, who always were Perseus, D'Artagnan, Lancelot To me, I give these weedy rhymes In memory of earlier times.
Now all those careless days are not.
Of all my heroes, you endure.
Words are such silly things! too rough, Too smooth, they boil up or congeal, And neither of us likes emotion -- But I can't measure my devotion! And you know how I really feel -- And we're together.
There, enough .
.
.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

LINES ON SEEING SCHILLERS SKULL.

 [This curious imitation of the ternary metre 
of Dante was written at the age of 77.
] WITHIN a gloomy charnel-house one day I view'd the countless skulls, so strangely mated, And of old times I thought, that now were grey.
Close pack'd they stand, that once so fiercely hated, And hardy bones, that to the death contended, Are lying cross'd,--to lie for ever, fated.
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended? No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired, The hand, the foot--their use in life is ended.
Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired; Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven Back into daylight by a force inspired; But none can love the wither'd husk, though even A glorious noble kernel it contained.
To me, an adept, was the writing given Which not to all its holy sense explained, When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging, I saw a form, that glorious still remained.
And even there, where mould and damp were clinging, Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion, As though from death a living fount were springing.
What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion! That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace! A look, how did it whirl me tow'rd that ocean Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace! Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear! Even to grasp thee is my hand too base, Except to steal thee from thy prison here With pious purpose, and devoutly go Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.
What greater gain in life can man e'er know Than when God-Nature will to him explain How into Spirit steadfastness may flow, How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.
1826.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE GARLANDS.

 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 
numbers,
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.
1815.
*


by Edmund Spenser | |

Amoretti XXII: This Holy Season

 This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclin'd:
Therefore I likewise on so holy day,
For my sweet saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind, In which her glorious image placed is, On which my thoughts do day and night attend, Like sacred priests that never think amiss.
There I to her as th' author of my bliss, Will build an altar to appease her ire: And on the same my heart will sacrifice, Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire: The which vouchsafe, O goddess, to accept, Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.


by Wang Wei | |

To Qiwu Qian Bound Home After Failing an Examination.

 In a happy reign there should be no hermits; 
The wise and able should consult together.
.
.
.
So you, a man of the eastern mountains, Gave up your life of picking herbs And came all the way to the Gate of Gold -- But you found your devotion unavailing.
.
.
.
To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers, You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital -- Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood You will float again toward your own thatch door, Led along by distant trees To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
.
.
.
What though your purpose happened to fail, Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.


by Elinor Wylie | |

Death and the Maiden

 BARCAROLE ON THE STYX


Fair youth with the rose at your lips, 
A riddle is hid in your eyes; 
Discard conversational quips, 
Give over elaborate disguise.
The rose's funeral breath Confirms by intuitive fears; To prove your devotion, Sir Death, Avaunt for a dozen of years.
But do not forget to array Your terror in juvenile charms; I shall deeply regret my delay If I sleep in a skeleton's arms.


by Robert William Service | |

Courage

 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.


by Robert William Service | |

Fool Faith

 Said I: "See yon vast heaven shine,--
 What earthly sight diviner?
Before such radiant Design
 Why doubt Designer?"

Said he: "Design is just a thought
 In human cerebration,
And meaningless if Man is not
 Part of creation.
"But grant Design,--we may imply The job took toil aplenty; Then why one sole designer, why Not ten or twenty.
"But should there be one Source supreme Of matter and of motion, Why mould it like our man-machine For daft devotion?" Said I: "You may be right or wrong, I'll seek not to discover .
.
.
I listen to yon starry song,-- Still, still God's lover.
"


by Robert William Service | |

My Dog

 'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.
Three acres by the shore I own, A hut, a pint wood; And there for fifteen years alone He shared my solitude.
It was his own, his only world, And when with hunting spent, Each night beside my bed he curled, And slept in sheer content.
My dog is dead.
Though lone I be I'll never have another; For with his master-worship he Was closer than a brother.
My foot is frail and I am old, Yet how my heart can pity Pups straining on a short leash-hold And pent up in the city.
From all thought of self above, And purged of sex emotion, I know no form of living love So deep as dogs devotion.
I have no hope at all of heaven, I've lived in sin and strife; But thank God! I at least have given One dog a happy life.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 134

 Daily and nightly devotion.
Ye that obey th' immortal King, Attend his holy place; Bow to the glories of his power, And bless his wondrous grace.
Lift up your hands by morning light, And send your souls on high; Raise your admiring thoughts by night Above the starry sky.
The God of Zion cheers our hearts With rays of quick'ning grace; The God that spread the heav'ns abroad, And rules the swelling seas.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 156

 Presumption and despair; or, Satan's various temptations.
I hate the tempter and his charms, I hate his flatt'ring breath; The serpent takes a thousand forms To cheat our souls to death.
He feeds our hopes with airy dreams, Or kills with slavish fear; And holds us still in wide extremes, Presumption or despair.
Now he persuades, "How easy 'tis To walk the road to heav'n;" Anon he swells our sins, and cries, "They cannot be forgiv'n.
" [He bids young sinners "yet forbear To think of God, or death; For prayer and devotion are But melancholy breath.
" He tells the aged, "they must die, "And 'tis too late to pray; In vain for mercy now they cry, For they have lost their day.
"] Thus he supports his cruel throne By mischief and deceit, And drags the sons of Adam down To darkness and the pit.
Almighty God, cut short his power, Let him in darkness dwell And that he vex the earth no more, Confine him down to hell.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 119 part 2

 Secret devotion and spiritual-mindedness.
ver.
147,55 To thee, before the dawning light My gracious God, I pray; I meditate thy name by night, And keep thy law by day.
ver.
81 My spirit faints to see thy grace, Thy promise bears me up; And while salvation long delays, Thy word supports my hope.
ver.
164 Seven times a day I lift my hands, And pay my thanks to thee; Thy righteous providence demands Repeated praise from me.
ver.
62 When midnight darkness veils the skies, I call thy works to mind; My thoughts in warm devotion rise, And sweet acceptance find.


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 39 part 3

 v.
9-13 C.
M.
Sick-bed devotion.
God of my life, look gently down, Behold the pains I feel; But I am dumb before thy throne, Nor dare dispute thy will.
Diseases are thy servants, Lord, They come at thy command; I'll not attempt a murm'ring word Against thy chast'ning hand.
Yet I may plead with humble cries, Remove thy sharp rebukes; My strength consumes, my spirit dies, Through thy repeated strokes.
Crushed as a moth beneath thy hand, We moulder to the dust; Our feeble powers can ne'er withstand, And all our beauty's lost.
[This mortal life decays apace, How soon the bubble's broke! Adam and all his num'rous race Are vanity and smoke.
] I'm but a sojourner below, As all my fathers were; May I be well prepared to go, When I the summons hear.
But if my life be spared awhile, Before my last remove, Thy praise shall be my business still, And I'll declare thy love.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

John Hancock Otis

 As to democracy, fellow citizens,
Are you not prepared to admit
That I, who inherited riches and was to the manor born,
Was second to none in Spoon River
In my devotion to the cause of Liberty?
While my contemporary, Anthony Findlay,
Born in a shanty and beginning life
As a water carrier to the section hands,
Then becoming a section hand when he was grown,
Afterwards foreman of the gang, until he rose
To the superintendency of the railroad,
Living in Chicago,
Was a veritable slave driver,
Grinding the faces of labor,
And a bitter enemy of democracy.
And I say to you, Spoon River, And to you, O republic, Beware of the man who rises to power From one suspender.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Robert Southey Burke

  I spent my money trying to elect you Mayor
A.
D.
Blood.
I lavished my admiration upon you, You were to my mind the almost perfect man.
You devoured my personality, And the idealism of my youth, And the strength of a high-souled fealty.
And all my hopes for the world, And all my beliefs in Truth, Were smelted up in the blinding heat Of my devotion to you, And molded into your image.
And then when I found what you were: That your soul was small And your words were false As your blue-white porcelain teeth, And your cuffs of celluloid, I hated the love I had for you, I hated myself, I hated you For my wasted soul, and wasted youth.
And I say to all, beware of ideals, Beware of giving your love away To any man alive.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Bards Of Olden Time

 Say, where is now that glorious race, where now are the singers
Who, with the accents of life, listening nations enthralled,
Sung down from heaven the gods, and sung mankind up to heaven,
And who the spirit bore up high on the pinions of song?
Ah! the singers still live; the actions only are wanting,
And to awake the glad harp, only a welcoming ear.
Happy bards of a happy world! Your life-teeming accents Flew round from mouth unto mouth, gladdening every race.
With the devotion with which the gods were received, each one welcomed That which the genius for him, plastic and breathing, then formed.
With the glow of the song were inflamed the listener's senses, And with the listener's sense, nourished the singer the glow-- Nourished and cleansed it,--fortunate one! for whom in the voices Of the people still clear echoed the soul of the song, And to whom from without appeared, in life, the great godhead, Whom the bard of these days scarcely can feel in his breast.


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!


by George Meredith | |

Modern Love XLVIII: Their Sense

 Their sense is with their senses all mixed in, 
Destroyed by subleties these women are! 
More brain, O Lord, more brain! or we shall mar 
Utterly this fair garden we might win.
Behold! I looked for peace, and thought it near.
Our inmost hearts had opened, each to each.
We drank the pure daylight of honest speech.
Alas I that was the fatal draught, I fear.
For when of my lost Lady came the word, This woman, O this agony of flesh! Jealous devotion bade her break the mesh, That I might seek that other like a bird.
I do adore the nobleness! despise The act! She has gone forth, I know not where.
Will the hard world my sentience of her share? I feel the truth; so let the world surmise.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

How a Little Girl Danced

 DEDICATED TO LUCY BATES

(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.