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Best Famous Easter Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Edmund Spenser | |

Easter

MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that on this day  
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin; 
And having harrowd hell didst bring away 
Captivity thence captive us to win: 
This joyous day deare Lord with joy begin; 5 
And grant that we for whom thou diddest dye  
Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin  
May live for ever in felicity! 

And that Thy love we weighing worthily  
May likewise love Thee for the same againe; 10 
And for Thy sake that all lyke deare didst buy  
With love may one another entertayne! 
So let us love deare Love lyke as we ought  
¡ªLove is the lesson which the Lord us taught.


by Edmund Blunden | by Edmund Blunden. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23156/The_Childs_Grave' st_title='The Child's Grave'>|

The Child's Grave

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
That I sang for delight as I followed the way.
I sang for delight in the ripening of spring, For dandelions even were suns come to earth; Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing To wait on the season with melody's mirth.
Love-making birds were my mates all the road, And who would wish surer delight for the eye Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty? And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown, With rich Easter roses each side of the door; The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.
This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.
Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.
Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride, And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave; It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side, And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.
He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so, And wished I would lead on the journey or home, As though not a moment of spring were to go In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come And tell me her life, since we left her that day In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears; But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay; How strange that this clay should mingle with hers! So I called my good dog, and went on my way; Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by, And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley, Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!


by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | |

Easter Hymn

 Make no mistake; there will be no forgiveness; 
No voice can harm you and no hand will save; 
Fenced by the magic of deliberate darkness 
You walk on the sharp edges of the wave; 

Trouble with soul again the putrefaction 
Where Lazarus three days rotten lies content.
Your human tears will be the seed of faction Murder the sequel to your sacrament.
The City of God is built like other cities: Judas negotiates the loans you float; You will meet Caiaphas upon committees; You will be glad of Pilate's casting vote.
Your truest lovers still the foolish virgins, Your heart will sicken at the marriage feasts Knowing they watch you from the darkened gardens Being polite to your official guests.


More great poems below...

by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge | |

Good Friday in my Heart

 GOOD FRIDAY in my heart! Fear and affright! 
My thoughts are the Disciples when they fled, 
My words the words that priest and soldier said, 
My deed the spear to desecrate the dead.
And day, Thy death therein, is changed to night.
Then Easter in my heart sends up the sun.
My thoughts are Mary, when she turned to see.
My words are Peter, answering, ‘Lov’st thou Me?’ My deeds are all Thine own drawn close to Thee, And night and day, since Thou dost rise, are one.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Easter Day

 The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: 'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.
I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.
'


by Katharine Tynan | |

Easter

 Bring flowers to strew His way, 
Yea, sing, make holiday; 
Bid young lambs leap, 
And earth laugh after sleep.
For now He cometh forth Winter flies to the north, Folds wings and cries Amid the bergs and ice.
Yea, Death, great Death is dead, And Life reigns in his stead; Cometh the Athlete New from dead Death's defeat.
Cometh the Wrestler, But Death he makes no stir, Utterly spent and done, And all his kingdom gone.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Easter Communion

 Pure fasted faces draw unto this feast: 
God comes all sweetness to your Lenten lips.
You striped in secret with breath-taking whips, Those crooked rough-scored chequers may be pieced To crosses meant for Jesu's; you whom the East With draught of thin and pursuant cold so nips Breathe Easter now; you serged fellowships, You vigil-keepers with low flames decreased, God shall o'er-brim the measures you have spent With oil of gladness, for sackcloth and frieze And the ever-fretting shirt of punishment Give myrrhy-threaded golden folds of ease.
Your scarce-sheathed bones are weary of being bent: Lo, God shall strengthen all the feeble knees.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Barnfloor and Winepress

 And he said, If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee? out of the barnfloor, or out of the winepress? 
2 Kings VI: 27

Thou that on sin's wages starvest, 
Behold we have the joy in harvest: 
For us was gather'd the first fruits, 
For us was lifted from the roots, 
Sheaved in cruel bands, bruised sore, 
Scourged upon the threshing-floor; 
Where the upper mill-stone roof'd His head, 
At morn we found the heavenly Bread, 
And, on a thousand altars laid, 
Christ our Sacrifice is made! 

Thou whose dry plot for moisture gapes, 
We shout with them that tread the grapes: 
For us the Vine was fenced with thorn, 
Five ways the precious branches torn; 
Terrible fruit was on the tree
In the acre of Gethsemane; 
For us by Calvary's distress
The wine was racked from the press; 
Now in our altar-vessels stored
Is the sweet Vintage of our Lord.
In Joseph's garden they threw by The riv'n Vine, leafless, lifeless, dry: On Easter morn the Tree was forth, In forty days reach'd heaven from earth; Soon the whole world is overspread; Ye weary, come into the shade.
The field where He has planted us Shall shake her fruit as Libanus, When He has sheaved us in His sheaf, When He has made us bear his leaf.
- We scarcely call that banquet food, But even our Saviour's and our blood, We are so grafted on His wood.


by A E Housman | |

The Lent Lily

 'Tis spring; come out to ramble 
The hilly brakes around, 
For under thorn and bramble 
About the hollow ground 
The primroses are found.
And there's the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there's the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day.
And since till girls go maying You find the primrose still, And find the windflower playing With every wind at will, But not the daffodil, Bring baskets now, and sally Upon the spring's array, And bear from hill and valley The daffodil away That dies on Easter day.


by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Says Mister Doojabs

 Well, eight months ago one clear cold day,
I took a ramble up Broadway,
And with my hands behind my back
I strolled along on the streetcar track—
(I walked on the track, for walking there
Gives one, I think, a distinguished air.
) “Well, all of a sudden I felt a jar And I said, “I’ll bet that’s a trolley car,” And, sure enough, when I looked to see I saw it had run right over me! And my limbs and things were so scattered about That for a moment I felt put out.
Well, the motorman was a nice young chap! And he came right up and tipped his cap And said, “Beg pardon,” and was so kind That his gentle manner soothed my mind: Especially as he took such pains To gather up my spilt remains.
Well, he found my arms and found my head, And then, in a contrite voice, he said, “Say, mister, I guess I’ll have to beg Your pardon, I can’t find your left leg,” And he would have wept, but I said, “No! no! It doesn’t matter, just let it go.
” Well, I went on home and on the way I considered what my wife would say: I knew she would have some sharp reply If I let her know I was one leg shy, So I thought, on the whole, ’twould be just as well For my peace of mind if I didn’t tell.
Well, that was the first thing in my life That I kept a secret from my wife.
And for eight long months I was in distress To think that I didn’t dare confess, And I’d probably still feel just that way If it hadn’t come ’round to Christmas Day.
Well, in good old customs I still believe, So I hung up my stocking Christmas Eve; (A brand-new left one I’d never worn.
) And when I looked in it Christmas morn There was my leg, as large as life, With a ticket on it, “From your wife.
” Well, my wife had had it stored away In cotton, since last Easter Day, When she ran across it, quite by chance, In the left hip-pocket of my pants; And the only reproachful thing she said Was, “Look out or some day you’ll lose your head.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Flood-Tide of Flowers

 IN HOLLAND 

The laggard winter ebbed so slow
With freezing rain and melting snow,
It seemed as if the earth would stay
Forever where the tide was low,
In sodden green and watery gray.
But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of color long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.
And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In shining pools of white and gold.
The tiny scilla, sapphire blue, Is gently seeping in, to strew The earth with heaven; and sudden rills Of sunlit yellow, sweeping through, Spread into lakes of daffodils.
The hyacinths, with fragrant heads, Have overflowed their sandy beds, And fill the earth with faint perfume, The breath that Spring around her sheds.
And now the tulips break in bloom! A sea, a rainbow-tinted sea, A splendor and a mystery, Floods o'er the fields of faded gray: The roads are full of folks in glee, For lo, -- to-day is Easter Day!


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Easter Week

 See the land, her Easter keeping, 
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping, Burst at last from winter snows.
Earth with heaven above rejoices; Fields and gardens hail the spring; Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, While the wild birds build and sing.
You, to whom your Maker granted Powers to those sweet birds unknown, Use the craft by God implanted; Use the reason not your own.
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, Each his Easter tribute bring- Work of fingers, chant of voices, Like the birds who build and sing.


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Easter Week

 (In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
") William Butler Yeats.
"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
" Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn A hue so radiantly brave? There was a rain of blood that day, Red rain in gay blue April weather.
It blessed the earth till it gave birth To valour thick as blooms of heather.
Romantic Ireland never dies! O'Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot graves are found.
Immortal patriots newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes? What is the tune that greets your ears? The young Republic's banners smile For many a mile where troops convene.
O'Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green.
The soil of Ireland throbs and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear.
Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.
See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse! There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll.
No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
Romantic Ireland is not old.
For years untold her youth will shine.
Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs is her wine.


by Claude McKay | |

The Easter Flower

 Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly 
My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, 
Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily 
Soft-scented in the air for yards around; 

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! 
Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, 
It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief 
In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; 

And many thought it was a sacred sign, 
And some called it the resurrection flower; 
And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, 
Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.


by Philip Levine | |

Once

 Hungry and cold, I stood in a doorway
on Delancey Street in 1946
as the rain came down.
The worst part is this is not from a bad movie.
I'd read Dos Passos' USA and thought, "Before the night ends my life will change.
" A stranger would stop to ask for my help, a single stranger more needy than I, if such a woman were possible.
I still had cigarettes, damp matches, and an inaccurate map of Manhattan in my head, and the change from the one $20 traveler's check I'd cashed in a dairy restaurant where the amazed owner actually proclaimed to the busy heads, "They got Jews in Detroit!" You can forgive the night.
No one else was dumb enough to be out.
Sure, it was Easter.
Was I expecting crocus and lilac to burst from the pavement and sweeten the air the way they did in Michigan once upon a time? This wouldn't be so bad if you were only young once.
Once would be fine.
You stand out in the rain once and get wet expecting to enter fiction.
You huddle under the Williamsburg Bridge posing for Life.
You trek to the Owl Hotel to lie awake in a room the size of a cat box and smell the dawn as it leaks under the shade with the damp welcome you deserve.
Just the once you earn your doctorate in mismanagement.
So I was eighteen, once, fifty years ago, a kid from a small town with big ideas.
Gatsby said if Detroit is your idea of a small town you need another idea, and I needed several.
I retied my shoes, washed my face, brushed my teeth with a furry tongue, counted out my $11.
80 on the broken bed, and decided the time had come to mature.
How else can I explain voting for Adlai Stevenson once and once again, planting a lemon tree in hard pan, loaning my Charlie Parker 78s to an out-of-work actor, eating pork loin barbecued on Passover, tangoing perfectly without music even with you?


by Stevie Smith | |

Conviction (ii)

 I walked abroad in Easter Park,
I heard the wild dog's distant bark,
I knew my Lord was risen again, -
Wild dog, wild dog, you bark in vain.


by Ogden Nash | |

To A Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them

 Let's straighten this out, my little man,
And reach an agreement if we can.
I entered your door as an honored guest.
My shoes are shined and my trousers are pressed, And I won't stretch out and read you the funnies And I won't pretend that we're Easter bunnies.
If you must get somebody down on the floor, What in the hell are your parents for? I do not like the things that you say And I hate the games that you want to play.
No matter how frightfully hard you try, We've little in common, you and I.
The interest I take in my neighbor's nursery Would have to grow, to be even cursory, And I would that performing sons and nephews Were carted away with the daily refuse, And I hold that frolicsome daughters and nieces Are ample excuse for breaking leases.
You may take a sock at your daddy's tummy Or climb all over your doting mummy, But keep your attentions to me in check, Or, sonny boy, I will wring your neck.
A happier man today I'd be Had someone wrung it ahead of me.


by Rg Gregory | |

welsh experience

 called out by the sun
this easter saturday morning
i'm sitting on a bank
in pistyllgwyn
(house of the sacred spring)
against a tall oak
(close to a daffodil-clump)
overlooking the road
between brechfa and abergorlech
on the west side of the valley
of the afon cothi
reading a poem by taliesin
from the sixth century
(the first poem in the oxford book
of welsh poetry in english)
which begins
  there was a great battle saturday morning
and i have just reached the line
 and when i'm grown old with my death hard upon me
when my youngest son
charges up the bank
and attacks me with his plastic sword
and sticks it in my heart
then sits down by my side
to succour me


by George Herbert | |

Easter Wings

 Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
  Though foolishly he lost the same,
   Decaying more and more,
     Till he became
      Most poor:
      With thee
     O let me rise
    As larks, harmoniously, 
  And sing this day thy victories:
 Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did begin: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin, That I became Most thin.
With thee Let me combine And feel this day thy victory: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.


by George Herbert | |

Easter Song

 I Got me flowers to straw Thy way, 
I got me boughs off many a tree; 
But Thou wast up by break of day, 
And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.
The sunne arising in the East, Though he give light, and th’ East perfume, If they should offer to contest With Thy arising, they presume.
Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse: There is but one, and that one ever.


by George Herbert | |

Lent

 Welcome dear feast of Lent: who loves not thee, 
He loves not Temperance, or Authority, 
But is compos'd of passion.
The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church says, now: Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allow To ev'ry Corporation.
The humble soul compos'd of love and fear Begins at home, and lays the burden there, When doctrines disagree, He says, in things which use hath justly got, I am a scandal to the Church, and not The Church is so to me.
True Christians should be glad of an occasion To use their temperance, seeking no evasion, When good is seasonable; Unless Authority, which should increase The obligation in us, make it less, And Power itself disable.
Besides the cleanness of sweet abstinence, Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, A face not fearing light: Whereas in fulness there are sluttish fumes, Sour exhalations, and dishonest rheums, Revenging the delight.
Then those same pendant profits, which the spring And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing, And goodness of the deed.
Neither ought other men's abuse of Lent Spoil the good use; lest by that argument We forfeit all our Creed.
It's true, we cannot reach Christ's forti'eth day; Yet to go part of that religious way, Is better than to rest: We cannot reach our Saviour's purity; Yet we are bid, 'Be holy ev'n as he, ' In both let's do our best.
Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, Is much more sure to meet with him, than one That travelleth by-ways: Perhaps my God, though he be far before, May turn and take me by the hand, and more: May strengthen my decays.
Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fast By starving sin and taking such repast, As may our faults control: That ev'ry man may revel at his door, Not in his parlour; banqueting the poor, And among those his soul.


by Amy Clampitt | |

Easter Morning

 a stone at dawn
cold water in the basin
these walls' rough plaster
imageless
after the hammering
of so much insistence
on the need for naming
after the travesties
that passed as faces,
grace: the unction
of sheer nonexistence
upwelling in this
hyacinthine freshet
of the unnamed
the faceless


by John Clare | |

The Winters Spring

 The winter comes; I walk alone,
 I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
 The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please—no bees to hum— The coming spring's already come.
I never want the Christmas rose To come before its time; The seasons, each as God bestows, Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing; 'Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom: The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow That hangs on everything, It covers everything below Like white dove's brooding wing, A landscape to the aching sight, A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods That winters bring—the dress, White Easter of the year in bud, That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring, Nature's white spurts of the spring.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Easter Zunday

 Last Easter Jim put on his blue
Frock cwoat, the vu'st time-vier new;
Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass,
That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass;
An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole
A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole.
A span-new wes-co't, too, he wore, Wi' yellow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.
An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leane, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeane, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meade the maidens squeal an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.


by William Barnes | |

Easter Zunday

 Last Easter Jim put on his blue
Frock cwoat, the vu'st time-vier new;
Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass,
That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass;
An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole
A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole.
A span-new wes-co't, too, he wore, Wi' yellow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.
An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leane, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeane, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meade the maidens squeal an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.