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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.

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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 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.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Poem 22

 ANd thou great Iuno, which with awful might
the lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:
and eeke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart,
Eternally bind thou this louely band,
And all thy blessings vnto vs impart.
And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand, The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine.
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loues delight With secret ayde doest succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny, Send vs the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free, Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing, Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring.


by William Stafford | |

Objector

 In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon
to ward off complicity--the ordered life
our leaders have offered us.
Thin as a knife, our chance to live depends on such a sign while others talk and The Pentagon from the moon is bouncing exact commands: "Forget your faith; be ready for whatever it takes to win: we face annihilation unless all citizens get in line.
" I bow and cross my fork and spoon: somewhere other citizens more fearfully bow in a place terrorized by their kind of oppressive state.
Our signs both mean, "You hostages over there will never be slaughtered by my act.
" Our vows cross: never to kill and call it fate.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 04

 If I was drawn here from a distant place, 
'Twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address, 
But, gazing once more on your winsome face, 
To worship there Ideal Loveliness.
On that pure shrine that has too long ignored The gifts that once I brought so frequently I lay this votive offering, to record How sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me.
Enchanting girl, my faith is not a thing By futile prayers and vapid psalm-singing To vent in crowded nave and public pew.
My creed is simple: that the world is fair, And beauty the best thing to worship there, And I confess it by adoring you.


by Anne Sexton | |

Small Wire

 My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.
God does not need too much wire to keep Him there, just a thin vein, with blood pushing back and forth in it, and some love.
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire, God does not mind.
He will enter your hands as easily as ten cents used to bring forth a Coke.


by Sidney Lanier | |

A Song Of The Future.

 Sail fast, sail fast,
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;
Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past,
Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;
Sail fast, sail fast.
Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea With news about the Future scent the sea: My brain is beating like the heart of Haste: I'll loose me a bird upon this Present waste; Go, trembling song, And stay not long; oh, stay not long: Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove, But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love.


by Robert Creeley | |

The Mirror

 Seeing is believing.
Whatever was thought or said, these persistent, inexorable deaths make faith as such absent, our humanness a question, a disgust for what we are.
Whatever the hope, here it is lost.
Because we coveted our difference, here is the cost.


by Alexander Pope | |

Couplets on Wit

 I

But our Great Turks in wit must reign alone
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne.
II Wit is like faith by such warm Fools profest Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest.
III Some who grow dull religious strait commence And gain in morals what they lose in sence.
IV Wits starve as useless to a Common weal While Fools have places purely for their Zea.
V Now wits gain praise by copying other wits As one Hog lives on what another sh---.
VI Wou'd you your writings to some Palates fit Purged all you verses from the sin of wit For authors now are so conceited grown They praise no works but what are like their own.


by Kathleen Raine | |

The Ancient Speech

 A Gaelic bard they praise who in fourteen adjectives
Named the one indivisible soul of his glen;
For what are the bens and the glens but manifold qualities,
Immeasurable complexities of soul?
What are these isles but a song sung by island voices?
The herdsman sings ancestral memories
And the song makes the singer wise,
But only while he sings
Songs that were old when the old themselves were young,
Songs of these hills only, and of no isles but these.
For other hills and isles this language has no words.
The mountains are like manna, for one day given, To each his own: Strangers have crossed the sound, but not the sound of the dark oarsmen Or the golden-haired sons of kings, Strangers whose thought is not formed to the cadence of waves, Rhythm of the sickle, oar and milking pail, Whose words make loved things strange and small, Emptied of all that made them heart-felt or bright.
Our words keep no faith with the soul of the world.


by Jennifer Reeser | |

Leaning Over Eros

 She recognizes him at last as Other,
not Self.
I see her in my mind, hot wax about to plummet from the lifted candle.
Should closeness be so vulnerable to fact? The wrinkles in her gown – a troubling grayness amid chaste white – I see as always moved by some upended breeze against their terrace; his face I see as turned, not wholly proved, his faith in her confirmed in that he sleeps.
She scorches one long finger on the flame.
It all takes place unerringly and fluid as Psyche’s first defeat of Cupid’s aim.
And you are.
.
.
somewhere.
Never mind my grief.
It springs from sources better left unseen, when in this life, I scour my own gray wrinkles between our nights.
But they will not come clean.


by Susan Rich | |

A Poem for Will Baking

 Each night he stands before

the kitchen island, begins again

from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg,

he beats, he folds;

keeps faith in what happens

when you combine known quantities,

bake twelve minutes at a certain heat.
The other rabbis, the scholars, teenagers idling by the beach, they receive his offerings, in the early hours, share his grief.
It’s enough now, they say.
Each day more baked goods to friends, and friends of friends, even the neighborhood cops.
He can’t stop, holds on to the rhythmic opening and closing of the oven, the timer’s expectant ring.
I was just baking, he says if someone comes by.
Again and again, evenings winter into spring, he creates the most fragile of confections: madelines and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps and blue florentines; each crumb to reincarnate a woman – a savoring of what the living once could bring.


by John McCrae | |

In Flanders Field

 In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead.
Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.


by John McCrae | |

The Anxious Dead

 O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.
) O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call, That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, That we will onward till we win or fall, That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep.


by John McCrae | |

The Anxious Dead

 O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.
) O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call, That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, That we will onward till we win or fall, That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep; Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep.


by Herman Melville | |

The Enthusiast

 "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him"

Shall hearts that beat no base retreat
In youth's magnanimous years - 
Ignoble hold it, if discreet
When interest tames to fears;
Shall spirits that worship light
Perfidious deem its sacred glow,
Recant, and trudge where worldlings go,
Conform and own them right?

Shall Time with creeping influence cold
Unnerve and cow? The heart
Pine for the heartless ones enrolled
With palterers of the mart?
Shall faith abjure her skies,
Or pale probation blench her down
To shrink from Truth so still, so lone
Mid loud gregarious lies?

Each burning boat in Caesar's rear,
Flames -No return through me!
So put the torch to ties though dear,
If ties but tempters be.
Nor cringe if come the night: Walk through the cloud to meet the pall, Though light forsake thee, never fall From fealty to light.


by George Meredith | |

Modern Love XXXII: Full Faith I Have

 Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift 
To beauty, Common Sense.
To see her lie With her fair visage an inverted sky Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address The inner me that thirsts for her no less, And has so long been languishing in drouth, I feel that I am matched; that I am man! One restless corner of my heart or head, That holds a dying something never dead, Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can.
It means, that woman is not, I opine, Her sex's antidote.
Who seeks the asp For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!


by John Milton | |

On The New Forcers Of Conscience Under The Long Parliament

 Because you have thrown of your Prelate Lord,
And with stiff Vowes renounc'd his Liturgie
To seise the widdow'd whore Pluralitie
From them whose sin ye envi'd, not abhor'd,
Dare ye for this adjure the Civill Sword
To force our Consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic Hierarchy
Taught ye by meer A.
S.
and Rotherford? Men whose Life, Learning, Faith and pure intent Would have been held in high esteem with Paul Must now he nam'd and printed Hereticks By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing wors then those of Trent, That so the Parliament May with their wholsom and preventive Shears Clip your Phylacteries, though bauk your Ears, And succour our just Fears When they shall read this clearly in your charge New Presbyter is but Old Priest Writ Large.


by John Milton | |

Sonnet 14

 XIV

When Faith and Love which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load
Of Death, call'd Life; which us from Life doth sever
Thy Works and Alms and all thy good Endeavour
Staid not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
But as Faith pointed with her golden rod,
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o're with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And speak the truth of thee on glorious Theams Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
Note: Camb.
Autograph supplies title, On the Religious Memory of Catherine Thomson, my Christian Friend, deceased 16 Decemb.
, 1646.


by John Milton | |

On the Religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thomson my Christian Friend Deceased Dec. 16 1646

 When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And speak the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who henceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.