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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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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 Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Equipage

 Since the Road of Life's so ill; 
I, to pass it, use this Skill, 
My frail Carriage driving home 
To its latest Stage, the Tomb.
Justice first, in Harness strong, Marches stedfastly along: Charity, to smooth the Pace, Fills the next adjoining Trace: Independance leads the Way, Whom no heavy Curb do's sway; Truth an equal Part sustains, All indulg'd the loosen'd Reins: In the Box fits vig'rous Health, Shunning miry Paths of Wealth: Gaiety with easy Smiles, Ev'ry harsher Step beguiles; Whilst of Nature, or of Fate Only This I wou'd intreat: The Equipage might not decay, Till the worn Carriage drops away.


by William Henry Davies | |

Nell Barnes

 They lived apart for three long years, 
Bill Barnes and Nell his wife; 
He took his joy from other girls, 
She led a wicked life.
Yet ofttimes she would pass his shop, With some strange man awhile; And, looking, meet her husband's frown With her malicious smile.
Until one day, when passing there, She saw her man had gone; And when she saw the empty shop, She fell down with a moan.
And when she heard that he had gone Five thousand miles away; And that she's see his face no more, She sickened from that day.
To see his face was health and life, And when it was denied, She could not eat, and broke her heart -- It was for love she died.


by William Henry Davies | |

Truly Great

 My walls outside must have some flowers, 
My walls within must have some books; 
A house that's small; a garden large, 
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week; That comes not from my living kind, But from a dead man in his grave, Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too; Contented that no eyes but mine Can see her many charms, nor voice To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live, A self-made prisoner, with me; While many a wild bird sang around, On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them, In her far sweeter voice than all; Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large, This little gold, this lovely mate, With health in body, peace in heart-- Show me a man more great.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Morning Prayer

 Let me to-day do something that shall take
A little sadness from the world’s vast store, 
And may I be so favoured as to make
Of joy’s too scanty sum a little more.
Let me not hurt, by any selfish deed Or thoughtless word, the heart of foe or friend; Nor would I pass, unseeing, worthy need, Or sin by silence when I should defend.
However meagre be my worldly wealth, Let me give something that shall aid my kind – A word of courage, or a thought of health, Dropped as I pass for troubled hearts to find.
Let me to-night look back across the span ‘Twixt dawn and dark, and to my conscience say – Because of some good act to beast or man – “The world is better that I lived today.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

A Health to Mark Twain

 At his Birthday Feast

With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here's to you, and here's to you
With love that ne'er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart's unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health,--
Yes, here's a hearty health to you,
And here's to you, and here's to you,
Long life to you, Mark Twain.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Americas Prosperity

 They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold
In glittering flood has poured into thy chest;
Thy flocks and herds increase, thy barns are pressed
With harvest, and thy stores can hardly hold
Their merchandise; unending trains are rolled
Along thy network rails of East and West;
Thy factories and forges never rest; 
Thou art enriched in all things bought and sold! 

But dost thou prosper? Better news I crave.
O dearest country, is it well with thee Indeed, and is thy soul in health? A nobler people, hearts more wisely brave, And thoughts that lift men up and make them free,-- These are prosperity and vital wealth!


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 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 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 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 | |

The Metamorphosed Gypsies (excerpt)

 The fairy beam upon you,
The stars to glister on you;
A moon of light
In the noon of night,
Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you.
The wheel of fortune guide you The boy with the bow beside you; Run aye in the way Till the bird of day, And the luckier lot betide you.
To the old, long life and treasure, To the young, all health and pleasure; To the fair, their face With eternal grace, And the foul to be lov'd at leisure.
To the witty, all clear mirrors, To the foolish, their dark errors; To the loving sprite, A secure delight; To the jealous, his own false terrors.


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Pennies

 A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand
Behold him stand;
A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad.
The joy that once he had, The first delight of ownership is fled.
He bows his little head.
Ah, cruel Time, to kill That splendid thrill! Then in his tear-dimmed eyes New lights arise.
He drops his treasured pennies on the ground, They roll and bound And scattered, rest.
Now with what zest He runs to find his errant wealth again! So unto men Doth God, depriving that He may bestow.
Fame, health and money go, But that they may, new found, be newly sweet.
Yea, at His feet Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid, All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid.
Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife, And gain on loss.
What is the key to Everlasting Life? A blood-stained Cross.


by Stanley Kunitz | |

After The Last Dynasty

 Reading in Li Po
how "the peach blossom follows the water"
I keep thinking of you
because you were so much like
Chairman Mao,
naturally with the sex 
transposed
and the figure slighter.
Loving you was a kind of Chinese guerilla war.
Thanks to your lightfoot genius no Eighth Route Army kept its lines more fluid, traveled with less baggage so nibbled the advantage.
Even with your small bad heart you made a dance of departures.
In the cold spring rains when last you failed me I had nothing left to spend but a red crayon language on the character of the enemy to break appointments, to fight us not with his strength but with his weakness, to kill us not with his health but with his sickness.
Pet, spitfire, blue-eyed pony, here is a new note I want to pin on your door, though I am ten years late and you are nowhere: Tell me, are you stillmistress of the valley, what trophies drift downriver, why did you keep me waiting?


by Walt Whitman | |

That Music Always Round Me.

 THAT music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning—yet long untaught I did not hear; 
But now the chorus I hear, and am elated; 
A tenor, strong, ascending, with power and health, with glad notes of day-break I hear, 
A soprano, at intervals, sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves, 
A transparent bass, shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,
The triumphant tutti—the funeral wailings, with sweet flutes and violins—all
 these I
 fill myself with; 
I hear not the volumes of sound merely—I am moved by the exquisite meanings, 
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving, contending with fiery
 vehemence
 to excel each other in emotion; 
I do not think the performers know themselves—but now I think I begin to know them.


by Walt Whitman | |

With All Thy Gifts.

 WITH all thy gifts, America, 
(Standing secure, rapidly tending, overlooking the world,) 
Power, wealth, extent, vouchsafed to thee—With these, and like of these, vouchsafed
 to
 thee, 
What if one gift thou lackest? (the ultimate human problem never solving;) 
The gift of Perfect Women fit for thee—What of that gift of gifts thou lackest?
The towering Feminine of thee? the beauty, health, completion, fit for thee? 
The Mothers fit for thee?


by Walt Whitman | |

One Sweeps By.

 ONE sweeps by, attended by an immense train, 
All emblematic of peace—not a soldier or menial among them.
One sweeps by, old, with black eyes, and profuse white hair, He has the simple magnificence of health and strength, His face strikes as with flashes of lightning whoever it turns toward.
Three old men slowly pass, followed by three others, and they by three others, They are beautiful—the one in the middle of each group holds his companions by the hand, As they walk, they give out perfume wherever they walk.


by Rg Gregory | |

when the new year

 when the new year
came out of nowhere
and peeped into rooms
it was so flattered to find
all the tv's drinking its health
praising its innocent appearance
it responded with its warm
dark smile and went round
filling people's dry hearts
with joy

over the coming weeks though
those same tv's attacked it
criticising its puerile style
its sickly contemptible face
one year is the same as another
(they said) for the doom
time belabours us with
it took the year all
its length to discover
that the celebration
so welcoming its birth
just happened to be
where the beer was


by Rg Gregory | |

natural therapy

 the great thing about the tall white daisy
is that it knows how to laugh at itself

some flowers for all their rich displays
won't preen themselves without a primness

in their sap - nor let their stalks abide
bending this way that way in the thick wind

the large daisy is happy to be slapdash
is not snooty about the company it keeps

it does have a flair for being noticed
it's the way it lets its petals out (ragged

and not wanting everyone the same)
that appeals to nervous garden sufferers

(weary with pretending flowers per se are
god's gift to the dull earth and somehow 

the human race is privileged to be there)
the daisy knows everything there is to know

about not taking yourself too seriously - about 
relaxation and how to be naturally yogic

how to be part of the rough common stock
yet have a whiff of the immortal about you

a patch of such daisies growing artlessly
contains the dreams of all good health


by George Herbert | |

H. Baptism II

 Since, Lord, to thee
A narrow way and little gate
Is all the passage, on my infancy
Thou didst lay hold, and antedate
My faith in me.
O let me still Write thee great God, and me a child: Let me be soft and supple to thy will, Small to my self, to others mild, Behither ill.
Although by stealth My flesh get on, yet let her sister My soul bid nothing, but preserve her wealth: The growth of flesh is but a blister; Childhood is health.


by George Herbert | |

The H. Scriptures I

 Oh Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart
Suck ev'ry letter, and a honey gain, 
Precious for any grief in any part; 
To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.
Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make A full eternity: thou art a mass Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.
Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glass, That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well That washes what it shows.
Who can endear Thy praise too much? thou art heav'n's Lidger here, Working against the states of death and hell.
Thou art joy's handsel: heav'n lies flat in thee, Subject to ev'ry mounter's bended knee.


by Thomas Hood | |

The World is with Me

 The world is with me, and its many cares, 
Its woes--its wants--the anxious hopes and fears 
That wait on all terrestrial affairs-- 
The shades of former and of future years-- 
Forboding fancies and prophetic tears, 
Quelling a spirit that was once elate.
Heavens! what a wilderness the world appears, Where youth, and mirth, and health are out of date; But no--a laugh of innocence and joy Resounds, like music of the fairy race, And, gladly turning from the world's annoy, I gaze upon a little radiant face, And bless, internally, the merry boy Who "makes a son-shine in a shady place.
"


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Promise Of Peace

 The heads of strong old age are beautiful
Beyond all grace of youth.
They have strange quiet, Integrity, health, soundness, to the full They've dealt with life and been tempered by it.
A young man must not sleep; his years are war, Civil and foreign but the former's worse; But the old can breathe in safety now that they are Forgetting what youth meant, the being perverse, Running the fool's gauntlet and being cut By the whips of the five senses.
As for me, If I should wish to live long it were but To trade those fevers for tranquillity, Thinking though that's entire and sweet in the grave How shall the dead taste the deep treasure they have?