Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Famous Faith Poems

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

Search for the best famous Faith poems, articles about Faith poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Faith poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.


by Matthew Arnold | |

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the {AE}gean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.


by Thomas Moore | |

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
   Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
   Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
   Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
   Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.


More great poems below...

by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

Ichabod!

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
     Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
     Forevermore!

Revile him not—the Tempter hath
     A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
     Befit his fall!

Oh! dumb be passion's stormy rage,
     When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
     Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land, once proud of him, Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, nought Save power remains— A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!


by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

A Farewell to False Love

Farewell false love, the oracle of lies, 
A mortal foe and enemy to rest, 
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, 
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, 
A way of error, a temple full of treason, 
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.
A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run.
A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.
Sith* then thy trains my younger years betrayed, [since] And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed*, [revealed] Whose course was ever contrary to kind*: [nature] False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu.
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.


by William Cullen Bryant | |

Oh Mother of a Mighty Race

OH mother of a mighty race  
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 
The elder dames thy haughty peers  
Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame 5 And taunts of scorn they join thy name.
For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step¡ªthe wild deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; 10 Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.
Ay let them rail¡ªthose haughty ones While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art 15 How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe.
They know not in their hate and pride What virtues with thy children bide; 20 How true how good thy graceful maids Make bright like flowers the valley-shades; What generous men Spring like thine oaks by hill and glen.
What cordial welcomes greet the guest 25 By thy lone rivers of the West; How faith is kept and truth revered And man is loved and God is feared In woodland homes And where the ocean-border foams.
30 There 's freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth's down-trodden and opprest A shelter for the hunted head For the starved laborer toil and bread.
Power at thy bounds 35 Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.
Oh fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies The thronging years in glory rise 40 And as they fleet Drop strength and riches at thy feet.
Thine eye with every coming hour Shall brighten and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters elder born 45 Would brand thy name with words of scorn Before thine eye Upon their lips the taunt shall die.


by | |

An Elegy

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise  
And yours of whom I sing be such 
As not the world can praise too much  
Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue like allay so gone 5 Throughout your form as though that move And draw and conquer all men's love This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yet¡ªbecause 'Tis of your flesh and that you use 10 The noblest freedom not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws.
But who should less expect from you? In whom alone Love lives again: By whom he is restored to men 15 And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have rear'd The wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay That envy wish'd and nature fear'd: 20 And on them burn so chaste a flame With so much loyalty's expense As Love to acquit such excellence Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he¡ªthe deity 25 To whom all lovers are design'd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I¡ª Who as an off'ring at your shrine Have sung this hymn and here entreat 30 One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not but scant Appear and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you 35 What I in her am grieved to want! GLOSS: allay] alloy.


by Sara Teasdale | |

Doubt

 My soul lives in my body's house,
 And you have both the house and her—
But sometimes she is less your own
 Than a wild, gay adventurer;
A restless and an eager wraith,
 How can I tell what she will do—
Oh, I am sure of my body's faith,
 But what if my soul broke faith with you?


by The Bible | |

1 Peter 5:8-9

Be on your guard every day
Don't let your armour down
The enemy, the devil, is on the prowl
Like a fierce lion, he roams around
Always stand firm in the faith
Against Satan's fiery darts,
Don't let him have a foothold in
Or leave open the door of your heart
For we need to continually stand
Upon God's holy word
And not to give up on our faith
But remembering what we've heard
And all the while we remember
The same suffering comes to all
On our fellow sisters and brothers
For their faith in the Lord.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


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 | |

The Marmoreal Slumbers

Thus, the souls of dismal feudal lineage,
Perpetuating their pride in illustrious sepulchres,
Stretch out their long, marble sleep upon the flagstones,
Weighted with dead centuries and funereal pasts,

The heraldic and grandiose white cadavers,
With righteous hands joined in ardent rigidity,
Pallid with faith, that rise from their bosoms
With sacerdotal gestures of prayer in eternity.

Beneath a heavy mourning of shadows in the tumulous crypts,
Within the illustrious vision of their solemn brows, slumbers
The barbarous spendour of secular reigns.

And their bodies, where the original blood has congealed,
Sealed within the marbles, austerely patrician,
Are the petrified Phantoms of ancient times


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Cousin Nancy

 MISS NANCY ELLICOTT
Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them—
The barren New England hills—
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.
Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked And danced all the modern dances; And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, But they knew that it was modern.
Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army of unalterable law.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

How do I Love thee? Let me Count the Ways

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.


by Ben Jonson | |

To William Camden


XIV.
 ? TO WILLIAM CAMDEN.
  
CAMDEN !  most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know ;
(How nothing's that ?) ; to whom my country owes,
The great renown, and name wherewith she goes !
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that she more would crave.

What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things !
What sight in searching the most antique springs !
What weight, and what authority in thy speech !
Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.

Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee.

Many of thine, this better could, than I ;
But for their powers, accept my piety.


by Ben Jonson | |

To My Mere English Censurer

 by Ben Jonson

TO thee my way in epigrams seems new,
    When both it is the old way and the true.
Thou sayst that cannot be, for thou hast seen
    Davies and Weever, and the best have been,
And mine come nothing like.
I hope so; yet
    As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get,
If thou'dst but use thy faith, as thou didst then
    When thou wert wont t' admire, not censure men.
Prithee believe still, and not judge so fast,
    Thy faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.


Source:
Jonson, Ben.
"To my mere English censurer.
"
Poetry of the English Renaissance 1509-1660.
J.
William Hebel and Hoyt H.
Hudson, eds.
New York: F.
S.
Crofts & Co.
, 1941.
495.


Copyright ©1999 Anniina Jokinen.
All Rights Reserved.
Created by Anniina Jokinen on May 7, 1999.
Last updated on September 4, 1999.



Back


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

On a Dead Child

 Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, 
With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! 
Though cold and stark and bare, 
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride:—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.
To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.
Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.
So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.
So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Pater Filio

 Sense with keenest edge unusèd, 
Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; 
Lovely feet as yet unbruisèd 
On the ways of dark desire; 
Sweetest hope that lookest smiling
O'er the wilderness defiling! 

Why such beauty, to be blighted 
By the swarm of foul destruction? 
Why such innocence delighted, 
When sin stalks to thy seduction? 
All the litanies e'er chaunted 
Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.
I have pray'd the sainted Morning To unclasp her hands to hold thee; From resignful Eve's adorning Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee; With all charms of man's contriving Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.
Me too once unthinking Nature, —Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,— Fashion'd so divine a creature, Yea, and like a beast forsook me.
I forgave, but tell the measure Of her crime in thee, my treasure.


by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

Ichabod

 So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!


by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

Immortal love forever full

 Immortal love, forever full,
Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
A never ebbing sea!

Our outward lips confess the name
All other names above;
Love only knoweth whence it came,
And comprehendeth love.
Blow, winds of God, awake and blow The mists of earth away: Shine out, O Light divine, and show How wide and far we stray.
We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down; In vain we search the lowest deeps, For Him no depths can drown.
But warm, sweet, tender, even yet, A present help is He; And faith still has its Olivet, And love its Galilee.
The healing of His seamless dress Is by our beds of pain; We touch Him in life’s throng and press, And we are whole again.
Through Him the first fond prayers are said Our lips of childhood frame, The last low whispers of our dead Are burdened with His Name.
O Lord and Master of us all, Whate’er our name or sign, We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call, We test our lives by Thine.
The letter fails, the systems fall, And every symbol wanes; The Spirit over brooding all, Eternal Love remains.


by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

A Word for the Hour

 The firmament breaks up.
In black eclipse Light after light goes out.
One evil star, Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, As in the dream of the Apocalypse, Drags others down.
Let us not weakly weep Nor rashly threaten.
Give us grace to keep Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap On one hand into fratricidal fight, Or, on the other, yield eternal right, Frame lies of laws, and good and ill confound? What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage ground Our feet are planted; let us there remain In unrevengeful calm, no means untried Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied, The sad spectators of a suicide! They break the lines of Union: shall we light The fires of hell to weld anew the chain On that red anvil where each blow is pain? Draw we not even now a freer breath, As from our shoulders falls a load of death Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore When keen with life to a dead horror bound? Why take we up the accursed thing again? Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag With its vile reptile blazon.
Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.


by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

By Their Works

 Call him not heretic whose works attest
His faith in goodness by no creed confessed.
Whatever in love's name is truly done To free the bound and lift the fallen one Is done to Christ.
Whoso in deed and word Is not against Him labours for our Lord.
When he, who, sad and weary, longing sore For love's sweet service sought the sisters' door One saw the heavenly, one the human guest But who shall say which loved the master best?


by Sir Thomas Wyatt | |

Forget Not Yet

 Forget not yet the tried intent 
Of such a truth as I have meant 
My great travail so gladly spent 
Forget not yet.
Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye knew, since whan The suit, the service, none tell can, Forget not yet.
Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrongs, the scornful ways, The painful patience in denays Forget not yet.
Forget not yet, forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is, The mind that never means amiss; Forget not yet.
Forget not yet thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved, Forget not this.


by Sir Thomas Wyatt | |

A Revocation

 WHAT should I say? 
 --Since Faith is dead, 
And Truth away 
 From you is fled? 
 Should I be led 
 With doubleness? 
 Nay! nay! mistress.
I promised you, And you promised me, To be as true As I would be.
But since I see Your double heart, Farewell my part! Thought for to take 'Tis not my mind; But to forsake One so unkind; And as I find So will I trust.
Farewell, unjust! Can ye say nay But that you said That I alway Should be obeyed? And--thus betrayed Or that I wist! Farewell, unkist!


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Sonnets 05: Once More Into My Arid Days Like Dew

 Once more into my arid days like dew,
Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
Long since to be but just one other mound
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
And once again, and wiser in no wise, I chase your colored phantom on the air, And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise And stumble pitifully on to where, Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes, Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET CVI.

SONNET CVI.

L' avara Babilonia ha colmo 'l sacco.

HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.

Covetous Babylon of wrath divine
By its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now,
And for its future Gods to whom to bow
Not Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.
Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,
Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow,
Who shall again build up, and we avow
One faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine.
Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dust
Her proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd,
Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,
Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the world
Possess in peace; and we shall see it made
All gold, and fully its old works display'd.
Macgregor.