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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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Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.
'


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Written 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.


Written by Allen Ginsberg | |

Hospital Window

At gauzy dusk, thin haze like cigarette smoke 
ribbons past Chrysler Building's silver fins 
tapering delicately needletopped, Empire State's 
taller antenna filmed milky lit amid blocks 
black and white apartmenting veil'd sky over Manhattan, 
offices new built dark glassed in blueish heaven--The East 
50's & 60's covered with castles & watertowers, seven storied 
tar-topped house-banks over York Avenue, late may-green trees 
surrounding Rockefellers' blue domed medical arbor-- 
Geodesic science at the waters edge--Cars running up 
East River Drive, & parked at N.
Y.
Hospital's oval door where perfect tulips flower the health of a thousand sick souls trembling inside hospital rooms.
Triboro bridge steel-spiked penthouse orange roofs, sunset tinges the river and in a few Bronx windows, some magnesium vapor brilliances're spotted five floors above E 59th St under grey painted bridge trestles.
Way downstream along the river, as Monet saw Thames 100 years ago, Con Edison smokestacks 14th street, & Brooklyn Bridge's skeined dim in modern mists-- Pipes sticking up to sky nine smokestacks huge visible-- U.
N.
Building hangs under an orange crane, & red lights on vertical avenues below the trees turn green at the nod of a skull with a mild nerve ache.
Dim dharma, I return to this spectacle after weeks of poisoned lassitude, my thighs belly chest & arms covered with poxied welts, head pains fading back of the neck, right eyebrow cheek mouth paralyzed--from taking the wrong medicine, sweated too much in the forehead helpless, covered my rage from gorge to prostate with grinding jaw and tightening anus not released the weeping scream of horror at robot Mayaguez World self ton billions metal grief unloaded Pnom Penh to Nakon Thanom, Santiago & Tehran.
Fresh warm breeze in the window, day's release >from pain, cars float downside the bridge trestle and uncounted building-wall windows multiplied a mile deep into ash-delicate sky beguile my empty mind.
A seagull passes alone wings spread silent over roofs.
- May 20, 1975 Mayaguez Crisis


Written 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.


Written by Thomas Edward Brown | |

Risus Dei

 Methinks in Him there dwells alway
A sea of laughter very deep,
Where the leviathans leap,
And little children play,
Their white feet twinkling on its crisped edge;
But in the outer bay
The strong man drives the wedge
Of polished limbs,
And swims.
Yet there is one will say:-- 'It is but shallow, neither is it broad'-- And so he frowns; but is he nearer God? One saith that God is in the note of bird, And piping wind, and brook, And all the joyful things that speak no word: Then if from sunny nook Or shade a fair child's laugh Is heard, Is not God half? And if a strong man gird His loins for laughter, stirred By trick of ape or calf-- Is he no better than a cawing rook? Nay 'tis a Godlike function; laugh thy fill! Mirth comes to thee unsought; Mirth sweeps before it like a flood the mill Of languaged logic; thought Hath not its source so high; The will Must let it by: For though the heavens are still, God sits upon His hill, And sees the shadows fly; And if He laughs at fools, why should He not? 'Yet hath a fool a laugh'--Yea, of a sort; God careth for the fools; The chemic tools Of laughter He hath given them, and some toys Of sense, as 'twere a small retort Wherein they may collect the joys Of natural giggling, as becomes their state: The fool is not inhuman, making sport For such as would not gladly be without That old familiar noise: Since, though he laugh not, he can cachinnate-- This also is of God, we may not doubt.
'Is there an empty laugh?' Best called a shell From which a laugh has flown, A mask, a well That hath no water of its own, Part echo of a groan, Which, if it hide a cheat, Is a base counterfeit; But if one borrow A cloak to wrap a sorrow That it may pass unknown, Then can it not be empty.
God doth dwell Behind the feigned gladness, Inhabiting a sacred core of sadness.
'Yet is there not an evil laugh?' Content-- What follows? When Satan fills the hollows Of his bolt-riven heart With spasms of unrest, And calls it laughter; if it give relief To his great grief, Grudge not the dreadful jest.
But if the laugh be aimed At any good thing that it be ashamed, And blush thereafter, Then it is evil, and it is not laughter.
There are who laugh, but know not why: Whether the force Of simple health and vigour seek a course Extravagant, as when a wave runs high, And tips with crest of foam the incontinent curve, Or if it be reserve Of power collected for a goal, which had, Behold! the man is fresh.
So when strung nerve, Stout heart, pent breath, have brought you to the source Of a great river, on the topmost stie Of cliff, then have you bad All heaven to laugh with you; yet somewhere nigh A shepherd lad Has wondering looked, and deemed that you were mad.


Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Morning

 O'ER fallow plains and fertile meads,
AURORA lifts the torch of day;
The shad'wy brow of Night recedes,
Cold dew-drops fall from every spray;
Now o'er the thistle's rugged head,
Thin veils of filmy vapour fly,
On ev'ry violet's perfum'd bed
The sparkling gems of Nature lie.
The hill's tall brow is crown'd with gold, The Milk-maid trills her jocund lay, The Shepherd-boy unpens his fold, The Lambs along the meadows play; The pilf'ring LARK, with speckled breast, From the ripe sheaf's rich banquet flies; And lifting high his plumy crest, Soars the proud tenant of the skies.
The PEASANT steals with timid feet, And gently taps the cottage door; Or on the green sod takes his seat, And chaunts some well-known ditty o'er; Wak'd by the strain, the blushing MAID, Unpractis'd in Love's mazy wiles, In clean, but homely garb array'd, From the small casement peeps­and smiles.
Proud CHANTICLEER unfolds his wing, And flutt'ring struts in plumage gay; The glades with vocal echoes ring, Soft odours deck the hawthorn spray; The SCHOOL-BOY saunters o'er the green, With satchel, fill'd with Learning's store; While with dejected, sullen mien, He cons his tedious lesson o'er.
When WINTER spreads her banner chill, And sweeps the vale with freezing pow'r; And binds in spells the vagrant rill, And shrivels ev'ry ling'ring flow'r; When NATURE quits her verdant dress, And drops to earth her icy tears; E'EN THEN thy tardy glance can bless, And soft thy weeping eye appears.
Then at the Horn's enliv'ning peal, Keen Sportsmen for the chase prepare; Thro' the young Copse shrill echoes steal, Swift flies the tim'rous, panting hare; From ev'ry straw-thatch'd cottage soars Blue curling smoke in many a cloud; Around the Barn's expanded doors, The feather'd throng impatient crowd.
Such are thy charms! health-breathing scene! Where Nature's children revel gay; Where Plenty smiles with radiant mien, And Labour crowns the circling day; Where Peace, in conscious Virtue blest, Invites the Heart to joy supreme; While polish'd Splendour pants for rest And pines in Fashion's fev'rish dream.


Written 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.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET CIV.

SONNET CIV.

Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra.

LOVE'S INCONSISTENCY.

I fynde no peace and all my warre is done,
I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;
I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;
And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,
That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,
And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.
Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,
And yet of death it giveth none occasion.
Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;
I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;
I love another, and yet I hate my self;
I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,
Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,
And my delight is cawser of my greif.
Wyatt.
[S]
Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace;
I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;
Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;
Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.
His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;
In toils he holds me not, nor will release;
He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;
Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.
Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;
I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;
Detest myself, and for another burn;
By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;
[Pg 133]Death I despise, and life alike I hate:
Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!
Nott.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET LVII.

SONNET LVII.

L' ultimo, lasso! de' miei giorni allegri.

HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING.

The last, alas! of my bright days and glad
—Few have been mine in this brief life below—
[Pg 285]Had come; I felt my heart as tepid snow,
Presage, perchance, of days both dark and sad.
As one in nerves, and pulse, and spirits bad,
Who of some frequent fever waits the blow,
E'en so I felt—for how could I foreknow
Such near end of the half-joys I have had?
Her beauteous eyes, in heaven now bright and bless'd
With the pure light whence health and life descends,
(Wretched and beggar'd leaving me behind,)
With chaste and soul-lit beams our grief address'd:
"Tarry ye here in peace, beloved friends,
Though here no more, we yet shall there be join'd.
"
Macgregor.
Ah me! the last of all my happy days
(Not many happy days my years can show)
Was come! I felt my heart as turn'd to snow,
Presage, perhaps, that happiness decays!
E'en as the man whose shivering frame betrays,
And fluttering pulse, the ague's coming blow;
'Twas thus I felt!—but could I therefore know
How soon would end the bliss that never stays?
Those eyes that now, in heaven's delicious light,
Drink in pure beams which life and glory rain,
Just as they left mine, blinded, sunk in night,
Seem'd thus to say, sparkling unwonted bright,—
"Awhile, beloved friends, in peace remain,
Oh, we shall yet elsewhere exchange fond looks again!"
Morehead.


Written 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.


Written 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,


Written 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


Written 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.