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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 | |


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 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 Stephen Vincent Benet | |


 To W.
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 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 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.

by Ehsan Sehgal | |


"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;
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 Nazim Hikmet | |

Today Is Sunday

 Today is Sunday.
For the first time they took me out into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was aghast that the sky is so far away and so blue and so vast I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil, the sun and me.
I feel joyful and how.

by Robinson Jeffers | |

The Day Is A Poem (September 19 1939)

 This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice.
A man of genius: that is, of amazing Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul, Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it.
Here, the day was extremely hot; about noon A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake Danced the house, no harm done.
Tonight I have been amusing myself Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly Into the black sea through bursts of dry lightning and distant thunder.
Well: the day is a poem: but too much Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens, Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

by Amy Lowell | |

Fools Money Bags

 Outside the long window,
With his head on the stone sill,
The dog is lying,
Gazing at his Beloved.
His eyes are wet and urgent, And his body is taut and shaking.
It is cold on the terrace; A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glass And is content.
The Beloved is writing a letter.
Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.
Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy?

by Thomas Moore | |

Love and the Novice

 "Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, 
Where angels of light o'er our orisans bend; 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers 
To heaven in mingled odour ascend.
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours.
" Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd; His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.
"Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?" Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

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 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
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 Elinor Wylie | |

Death and the Maiden


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 | |

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 Siegfried Sassoon | |

Devotion to Duty

 I was near the King that day.
I saw him snatch And briskly scan the G.
Thick-voiced, he read it out.
(His face was grave.
) ‘This officer advanced with the first wave, ‘And when our first objective had been gained, ‘(Though wounded twice), reorganized the line: ‘The spirit of the troops was by his fine ‘Example most effectively sustained.
’ He gripped his beard; then closed his eyes and said, ‘Bathsheba must be warned that he is dead.
‘Send for her.
I will be the first to tell ‘This wife how her heroic husband fell.

by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 01

 Sidney, in whom the heyday of romance 
Came to its precious and most perfect flower, 
Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance 
Or brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower, 
I give myself some credit for the way 
I have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers, 
Shunned the ideals of our present day 
And studied those that were esteemed in yours; 
For, turning from the mob that buys Success 
By sacrificing all Life's better part, 
Down the free roads of human happiness 
I frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart, 
And lived in strict devotion all along 
To my three idols -- Love and Arms and Song.

by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 07

 There have been times when I could storm and plead, 
But you shall never hear me supplicate.
These long months that have magnified my need Have made my asking less importunate, For now small favors seem to me so great That not the courteous lovers of old time Were more content to rule themselves and wait, Easing desire with discourse and sweet rhyme.
Nay, be capricious, willful; have no fear To wound me with unkindness done or said, Lest mutual devotion make too dear My life that hangs by a so slender thread, And happy love unnerve me before May For that stern part that I have yet to play.

by Robert Southey | |


 Let ancient stories round the painter's art, 
Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, 
Till warm devotion fired each gazer's heart 
And every bosom bounded with alarms.
He culled the beauties of his native isle, From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, From some the lovely look, the winning smile, From some the languid lustre of the eyes.
Low to the finished form the nations round In adoration bent the pious knee; With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crowned, Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee.
Ill-fated artist, doomed so wide to seek The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!