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Best Famous God Poems

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

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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 Robert Herrick | |

To Find God

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind?
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixed in that wat'ry theater,
And taste thou them as saltless there,
As in their channel first they were.
Tell me the people that do keep Within the kingdoms of the deep; Or fetch me back that cloud again, Beshivered into seeds of rain.
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears Of corn, when summer shakes his ears; Show me that world of stars, and whence They noiseless spill their influence.
This if thou canst; then show me Him That rides the glorious cherubim.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Gods Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed.
Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Hélas

To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God.
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance— And must I lose a soul's inheritance?


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 Edgar Allan Poe | |

A Dream within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow
And in parting from you now 
Thus much let me avow ---
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away.
In a night or in a day In a vision or in none Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand --- How few! Yet how they creep Throngh my fingers to the deep While I weep --- while I weep! O God! Can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
   For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
   Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Doc Hill

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why? My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral, And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able To hold to the railing of the new life When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree At the grave, Hiding herself, and her grief!


by Thomas Hardy | |

Hap

If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh:  "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"

Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so.
How arrives it joy lies slain, And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? —Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan.
.
.
.
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.


by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams | |

Nearer my God to Thee

Nearer, my God, to Thee,
   Nearer to Thee!
E'en though it be a cross
   That raiseth me;
Still all my song would be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
   Nearer to Thee!

Though like the wanderer,
   The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
   My rest alone.
Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! There let the way appear Steps unto heav'n; All that Thou sendest me In mercy giv'n; Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Or if on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upwards I fly, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!


by Emily Dickinson | |

Before you thought of spring

Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self!


by Emily Dickinson | |

God permit industrious angels

God permit industrious angels
Afternoons to play.
I met one, -- forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightaway.
God calls home the angels promptly At the setting sun; I missed mine.
How dreary marbles, After playing the Crown!


by Frank O'Hara | |

My heart

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time 
I don't prefer one "strain" to another 
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie 
not just a sleeper but also the big 
over-produced first-run kind.
I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar.
And if some aficionado of my mess says "That's not like Frank!" all to the god! I don't wear brown and grey suits all the time do I? No I wear workshirts to the opera often.
I want my feet to be bare I want my face to be shaven and my heart-- you can't plan on the heart but the better part of it my poetry is open.


by Phillis Wheatley | |

An Hymn to the Evening

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;
Majestic grandeur!  From the zephyr's wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below! Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.


by Emily Dickinson | |

I never saw a moor

I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet know I how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.


by John Donne | |

A Hymn to God the Father

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun  
Which was my sin though it were done before? 
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run  
And do run still though still I do deplore? 
When Thou hast done Thou hast not done; 5 
For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two but wallow'd in a score? 10 When Thou hast done Thou hast not done; For I have more.
I have a sin of fear that when I've spun My last thread I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son 15 Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that Thou hast done; I fear no more.


by Emily Dickinson | |

God made a little gentian

God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it.
"Creator! shall I bloom?"


by Emily Dickinson | |

God gave a loaf to every bird

God gave a loaf to every bird,
But just a crumb to me;
I dare not eat it, though I starve,--
My poignant luxury
To own it, touch it, prove the feat
That made the pellet mine,--
Too happy in my sparrow chance
For ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair.
I wonder how the rich may feel,-- An Indiaman--an Earl? I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Sonnets from the Portuguese iii

GO from me.
Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow.
Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul nor lift my hand 5 Serenely in the sunshine as before Without the sense of that which I forbore¡ª Thy touch upon the palm.
The widest land Doom takes to part us leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double.
What I do 10 And what I dream include thee as the wine Must taste of its own grapes.
And when I sue God for myself He hears that name of thine And sees within my eyes the tears of two.


by George (Lord) Byron | |

On the Castle of Chillon

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons Liberty! thou art  
For there thy habitation is the heart¡ª 
The heart which love of Thee alone can bind.
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd 5 To fetters and the damp vault's dayless gloom Their country conquers with their martyrdom And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar for 'twas trod 10 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.


by Philip Larkin | |

High Windows

 When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly.
I wonder if Anyone looked at me, forty years back, And thought, That'll be the life; No God any more, or sweating in the dark About hell and that, or having to hide What you think of the priest.
He And his lot will all go down the long slide Like free bloody birds.
And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.


by Philip Larkin | |

Whatever Happened?

 At once whatever happened starts receding.
Panting, and back on board, we line the rail With trousers ripped, light wallets, and lips bleeding.
Yes, gone, thank God! Remembering each detail We toss for half the night, but find next day All's kodak-distant.
Easily, then (though pale), 'Perspective brings significance,' we say, Unhooding our photometers, and, snap! What can't be printed can be thrown away.
Later, it's just a latitude: the map Points out how unavoidable it was: 'Such coastal bedding always means mishap.
' Curses? The dark? Struggling? Where's the source Of these yarns now (except in nightmares, of course)?


by Christina Rossetti | |

Before The Paling Of The Stars

 Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest cock crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world his hands had made
Born a stranger.
Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem; Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem; Saint and angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather.
Jesus on his mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless lamb of God was he, Shepherd of the fold: Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With saint and angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Who shall deliver me?

 God strengthen me to bear myself; 
That heaviest weight of all to bear, 
Inalienable weight of care.
All others are outside myself; I lock my door and bar them out The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.
I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all? If I could once lay down myself, And start self-purged upon the race That all must run ! Death runs apace.
If I could set aside myself, And start with lightened heart upon The road by all men overgone! God harden me against myself, This coward with pathetic voice Who craves for ease and rest and joys Myself, arch-traitor to mysel ; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go.
Yet One there is can curb myself, Can roll the strangling load from me Break off the yoke and set me free


by Jerome Rothenberg | |

I EXCEED MY LIMITS

 I have tried an altenstil
& dropped it.
My skin is blazing, blazing too the way I see your faces in the glass.
With the circle of the sun behind me I exceed my limits.
My garments are from the beginning & my dwelling place is in my self(J.
Dee) It makes me want to fly the stars below the paradise of poets lost in space.
I am the father of a lie unspoken.
I can make my mind go blank then paw at you my fingers in your mouth.
I think of God when fucking.
Is it wrong to pray without a hat to reject the call to grace? I long to flatter presidents & kings.
I long for manna.
I will be the first to sail for home the last to flaunt my longings.
I will undo my garments & stand before you naked.
In winter I will curse their god & die.