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Best Famous Health Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by William Wordsworth | |

The Tables Turned

An Evening Scene on the Same Subject

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.


by Alexander Pope | |

Ode on Solitude

I.
How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of towns; Contented breathes his native air, In his own grounds.
II.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
III.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide swift away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, IV.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.
V.
Thus let me live, unheard, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.


by William Blake | |

Night

THE sun descending in the west  
The evening star does shine; 
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon like a flower 5 In heaven's high bower With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell green fields and happy grove Where flocks have took delight: 10 Where lambs have nibbled silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing And joy without ceasing On each bud and blossom 15 And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast To keep them all from harm: 20 If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping They pour sleep on their head And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey 25 They pitying stand and weep Seeking to drive their thirst away And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful The angels most heedful 30 Receive each mild spirit New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries 35 And walking round the fold: Saying 'Wrath by His meekness And by His health sickness Are driven away From our immortal day.
40 'And now beside thee bleating lamb I can lie down and sleep Or think on Him who bore thy name Graze after thee and weep.
For wash'd in life's river 45 My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.
'


More great poems below...

by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples

THE sun is warm the sky is clear  
The waves are dancing fast and bright  
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might: 
The breath of the moist earth is light 5 
Around its unexpanded buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight¡ª 
The winds' the birds' the ocean-floods'¡ª 
The city's voice itself is soft like solitude's.
I see the deep's untrampled floor 10 With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown.
I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noontide ocean 15 Is flashing round me and a tone Arises from its measured motion¡ª How sweet did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health Nor peace within nor calm around; 20 Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found And walk'd with inward glory crown'd; Nor fame nor power nor love nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround¡ª 25 Smiling they live and call life pleasure: To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child 30 And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear ¡ª Till death like sleep might steal on me And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold and hear the sea 35 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Future

I will never search your past
Future will no bother me
Because its other name is today
The present, you are mine
Your life, love, respect, honour
Your health, wealth and worth
Make your destiny
Your all actions will be counted
Today, the present, it is your future too.
Ehsan Sehgal


by Henry Kendall | |

Leaves From Australian Forests - Dedication

To her who, cast with me in trying days, 
Stood in the place of health and power and praise;- 
Who, when I thought all light was out, became 
A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame;- 
Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere 
That waits upon the man of letters here;- 
Who, unawares, her deep affection showed, 
By many a touching little wifely mode;- 
Whose spirit, self-denying, dear, divine, 
Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine, - 
To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate 
This book of songs. 'Twill help to compensate 
For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme, 
Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time 
Of trials past. That which is most intense 
Within these leaves is of her influence; 

And if aught here is sweetened with a tone 
Sincere, like love, it came of love alone.


by Anonymous | |

SUMMER TIME.

I love to hear the little birds
That carol on the trees;
I love the gentle, murmuring stream;
I love the evening breeze.
I love to hear the busy hum
Of honey-making bee,
And learn a lesson,—hard to learn,—
Of patient industry.
I love to think of Him who made
Those pleasant things for me,
Who gave me life, and health, and strength,
And eyes, that I might see.
The child who raises, morn and eve,
In prayer its tiny voice
Who grieves whene’er its parents grieve,
And joys when they rejoice,—In whose bright eyes young genius glows,
Whose heart, without a blot,
Is fresh and pure as summer’s rose,—
That child’s a sunny spot.
[Pg 027]


by Ben Jonson | |

Song. To Sickness


VIII.
 ? SONG.
 ? TO SICKNESS.
     
To thy altars, by their nights
Spent in surfeits ; and their days,
And nights too, in worser ways ?
    Take heed, Sickness, what you do,
I shall fear you'll surfeit too.

Live not we, as all thy stalls,And this age will build no more.

    'Pray thee, feed contented then,
    Sickness, only on us men ;
    Or if it needs thy lust will taste
    Woman-kind ; devour the waste
    Livers, round about the town.

But, forgive me, ? with thy crown
They maintain the truest trade,
10    Daintiness, and softer ease,
    Sleeked limbs, and finest blood ?
    If thy leanness love such food,
    There are those, that for thy sake,
    Do enough ; and who would take
    Any pains : yea, think it price,
    To become thy sacrifice.

    That distill, their husbands' land    Lying for the spirit of amber.

    That for the oil of talc dare spend
    More than citizens dare lend
    Them, and all their officers.

    That to make all pleasure theirs,
    Will by coach, and water go,
    Every stew in town to know ;
    Dare entail their loves on any,    Play away health, wealth, and fame.

These, Disease, will thee deserve ;
And will long, ere thou should'st starve,
On their beds, most prostitute,
Move it, as their humblest suit,
In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.

Ladies, and of them the best?
Do not men enow of rights
To thy altars, by their nights
Spent in surfeits ; and their days,
And nights too, in worser ways ?
    Take heed, Sickness, what you do,
I shall fear you'll surfeit too.

Live not we, as all thy stalls,


by Sir Thomas Wyatt | |

I Find No Peace

 I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope.
I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise; And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise-- Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain; Likewise displeaseth me both life and death, And my delight is causer of this strife.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET CCIII.

SONNET CCIII.

L' alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale.

HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.

The sovereign Lord, 'gainst whom of no avail
Concealment, or resistance is, or flight,
My mind had kindled to a new delight
By his own amorous and ardent ail:
[Pg 213]Though his first blow, transfixing my best mail
Were mortal sure, to push his triumph quite
He took a shaft of sorrow in his right,
So my soft heart on both sides to assail.
A burning wound the one shed fire and flame,
The other tears, which ever grief distils,
Through eyes for your weak health that are as rills.
But no relief from either fountain came
My bosom's conflagration to abate,
Nay, passion grew by very pity great.
Macgregor.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXXVII.

SONNET LXXXVII.

Dolci durezze e placide repulse.

HE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURA.

O sweet severity, repulses mild,
With chasten'd love, and tender pity fraught;
Graceful rebukes, that to mad passion taught
Becoming mastery o'er its wishes wild;
Speech dignified, in which, united, smiled
All courtesy, with purity of thought;
Virtue and beauty, that uprooted aught
Of baser temper had my heart defiled:
[Pg 316]Eyes, in whose glance man is beatified—
Awful, in pride of virtue, to restrain
Aspiring hopes that justly are denied,
Then prompt the drooping spirit to sustain!
These, beautiful in every change, supplied
Health to my soul, that else were sought in vain.
Dacre.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

TO FATHER* KRONOS.

 [written in a post-chaise.
] (* In the original, Schwager, which has the twofold meaning of brother-in-law and postilion.
) HASTEN thee, Kronos! On with clattering trot Downhill goeth thy path; Loathsome dizziness ever, When thou delayest, assails me.
Quick, rattle along, Over stock and stone let thy trot Into life straightway lead Now once more Up the toilsome ascent Hasten, panting for breath! Up, then, nor idle be,-- Striving and hoping, up, up! Wide, high, glorious the view Gazing round upon life, While from mount unto mount Hovers the spirit eterne, Life eternal foreboding.
Sideways a roof's pleasant shade Attracts thee, And a look that promises coolness On the maidenly threshold.
There refresh thee! And, maiden, Give me this foaming draught also, Give me this health-laden look! Down, now! quicker still, down! See where the sun sets Ere he sets, ere old age Seizeth me in the morass, Ere my toothless jaws mumble, And my useless limbs totter; While drunk with his farewell beam Hurl me,--a fiery sea Foaming still in mine eye,-- Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling, Down to the gloomy portal of hell.
Blow, then, gossip, thy horn, Speed on with echoing trot, So that Orcus may know we are coming; So that our host may with joy Wait at the door to receive us.
1774.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS!

 MY trust in nothing now is placed,

Hurrah!
So in the world true joy I taste,

Hurrah!
Then he who would be a comrade of mine
Must rattle his glass, and in chorus combine,
Over these dregs of wine.
I placed my trust in gold and wealth, Hurrah! But then I lost all joy and health, Lack-a-day! Both here and there the money roll'd, And when I had it here, behold, From there had fled the gold! I placed my trust in women next, Hurrah! But there in truth was sorely vex'd, Lack-a-day! The False another portion sought, The True with tediousness were fraught, The Best could not be bought.
My trust in travels then I placed, Hurrah! And left my native land in haste.
Lack-a-day! But not a single thing seem'd good, The beds were bad, and strange the food, And I not understood.
I placed my trust in rank and fame, Hurrah! Another put me straight to shame, Lack-a-day! And as I had been prominent, All scowl'd upon me as I went, I found not one content.
I placed my trust in war and fight, Hurrah! We gain'd full many a triumph bright, Hurrah! Into the foeman's land we cross'd, We put our friends to equal cost, And there a leg I lost.
My trust is placed in nothing now, Hurrah! At my command the world must bow, Hurrah! And as we've ended feast and strain, The cup we'll to the bottom drain; No dregs must there remain! 1806.


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

Rondeau

 Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and welth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

Jenny kissd Me

 Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and welth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

Jenny Kissed Me

 Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.


by Alexander Pope | |

Solitude: An Ode

 I.
How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of towns; Contented breaths his native air, In his own grounds.
II.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
III.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide swift away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, IV.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.
V.
Thus let me live, unheard, unknown; Thus unlamented let me dye; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lye.


by Alexander Pope | |

Solitude

 Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
 In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield shade, In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.


by Matthew Prior | |

For my own Monument

 AS doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; 
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.
Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, In a life parti-colour'd, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he! Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.


by William Strode | |

Keepe On Your Maske (Version for his Mistress)

 Keepe on your maske and hide your eye
For in beholding you I dye.
Your fatall beauty Gorgon-like Dead with astonishment doth strike.
Your piercing eyes that now I see Are worse than Basilisks to me.
Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow, Their melting vally do not shew: Those azure paths lead to despaire, O vex me not, forbear, forbear; For while I thus in torments dwell The sight of Heaven is worse than Hell.
In those faire cheeks two pits doe lye To bury those slaine by your eye: So this at length doth comfort me That fairely buried I shall be: My grave with Roses, Lillies, spread, Methinks tis life for to be dead: Come then and kill me with your eye, For if you let me live I dye.
When I perceive your lips againe Recover those your eyes have slaine, With kisses that (like balsome pure) Deep wounds as soone as made doe cure, Methinks tis sicknesse to be sound, And there's no health to such a wound.
When in your bosome I behold Two hills of snow yet never cold, Which lovers, whom your beauty kills, Revive by climing those your hills, Methinks there's life in such a death That gives a hope of sweeter breath: Then since one death prevails not where So many antidotes are nere, And your bright eyes doe but in vaine Kill those who live as fast as slaine; That I no more such death survive Your way's to bury me alive In place unknown, and so that I Being dead may live and living dye.


by William Strode | |

On The Death Of A Twin

 Where are yee now, Astrologers, that looke
For petty accidents in Heavens booke?
Two Twins, to whom one Influence gave breath,
Differ in more than Fortune, Life and Death.
While both were warme (for that was all they were Unlesse some feeble cry sayd Life was there By wavering change of health they seem'd to trie Which of the two should live, for one must die.
As if one Soule, allotted to susteine The lumpe, which afterwards was cutt in twain, Now servde them both: whose limited restraynt From double vertue made them both to faynt: But when that common Soule away should flie, Death killing one, expected both should die: Shee hitt, and was deceivde: that other parte Went to supply the weake survivers heart: So Death, where shee was cruell, seemde most milde: She aymed at two, and killde but halfe a childe.


by Robert William Service | |

The Score

 I asked a silver sage
 With race nigh run:
'Tell me in old of age
 Your wisdom won?'
Said he: 'From fret and strife
 And vain vexation,
The all I've learned from life
 Is--Resignation.
' I asked a Bard who thrummed A harp clay-cold: 'How is your story summed Now you are old?' Though golden voice was his, And fame had he, He sighed: 'The finish is --Futility.
' I'm old; I have no wealth Toil to reward; Yet for the boon of health I thank the Lord.
While Beauty I can see, To live is good; And so life's crown to me Is--Gratitude


by Robert William Service | |

Birthday

 (16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that's mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I'm a gay old boy
Though I be
 Seventy-and-five.
My daughter thinks.
because I'm old (I'm not a crock, when all is said), I mustn't let my feet get cold, And should wear woollen socks in bed; A worsted night-cap too, forsooth! To humour her I won't contrive: A man is in his second youth When he is Seventy-and-five.
At four-score years old age begins, And not till then, I warn my wife; At eighty I'll recant my sins, And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up, And tell the world that I'm alive: Fill to the brim the bubbly cup - Here's health to Seventy-and-five!


by Robert William Service | |

Success

 You ask me what I call Success -
It is, I wonder, Happiness?

It is not wealth, it is not fame,
Nor rank, nor power nor honoured name.
It is not triumph in the Arts - Best-selling books or leading parts.
It is not plaudits of the crowd, The flame of flags, processions proud.
The panegyrics of the Press are but the mirage of Success.
You may have all of them, my friend, Yet be a failure in the end.
I've know proud Presidents of banks Who've fought their way up from the ranks, And party leaders of renown Who played as boys in Shantytown.
Strong, self-made men, yet seek to trace Benignity in any face; Grim purpose, mastery maybe, Yet never sweet serenity; Never contentment, thoughts that bless - That mellow joy I deem Success.
The haply seek some humble hearth, Quite poor in goods yet rich in mirth, And see a man of common clay Watching his little ones at play; A laughing fellow full of cheer, Health, strength and faith that mocks at fear; Who for his happiness relies On joys he lights in other eyes; He loves his home and envies none.
.
.
.
Who happier beneath the sun? Aye, though he walk in lowly ways, Shining Success has crowned his days.


by Robert William Service | |

The Choice

 Some inherit manly beauty,
Some come into worldly wealth;
Some have lofty sense of duty,
Others boast exultant health.
Though the pick may be confusing, Health, wealth, charm or character, If you had the chance of choosing Which would you prefer? I'm not sold on body beauty, Though health I appreciate; Character and sense of duty I resign to Men of State.
I don't need a heap of money; Oh I know I'm hard to please.
Though to you it may seem funny, I want none of these.
No, give me Imagination, And the gift of weaving words Into patterns of creation, With the lilt of singing birds; Passion and the power to show it, Sense of life with love expressed: Let my be a bloody poet,-- You can keep the rest.