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Best Famous Miracle Poems

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

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by | |

A Farewell to the World

FALSE world good night! since thou hast brought 
That hour upon my morn of age; 
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought  
My part is ended on thy stage.
Yes threaten do.
Alas! I fear 5 As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender first and simple years Thou didst abuse and then betray; 10 Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted me Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts profess¨¨d be 15 And pride and ignorance the schools; Where nothing is examined weigh'd But as 'tis rumour'd so believed; Where every freedom is betray'd And every goodness tax'd or grieved.
20 But what we're born for we must bear: Our frail condition it is such That what to all may happen here If 't chance to me I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake 25 To harbour a divided thought From all my kind¡ªthat for my sake There should a miracle be wrought.
No I do know that I was born To age misfortune sickness grief: 30 But I will bear these with that scorn As shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far As wanderers do that still do roam; But make my strengths such as they are 35 Here in my bosom and at home.

by Siegfried Sassoon | |

David Cleek

I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim
To snuff you out or put you off your game:
You¡¯ll still contrive to play your steady round 
Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground 
And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green 5
Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean.
Saint Andrew guard your ghost old David Cleek And send you home to Fifeshire once a week! Good fortune speed your ball upon its way When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day; 10 Till saints and angels hymn for evermore The miracle of your astounding score; And He who keeps all players in His sight Walking the royal and ancient hills of light Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole 15 To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.

by Siegfried Sassoon | |

The Heritage

CRY out on Time that he may take away
Your cold philosophies that give no hint
Of spirit-quickened flesh; fall down and pray
That Death come never with a face of flint:
Death is our heritage; with Life we share 5
The sunlight that must own his darkening hour:
Within his very presence yet we dare
To gather gladness like a fading flower.
For even as this our joy not long may live Perfect; and most in change the heart can trace 10 The miracle of life and human things: All we have held to destiny we give; Dawn glimmers on the soul-forsaken face; Not we but others hear the bird that sings.

More great poems below...

by Sara Teasdale | |

After Love

 There is no magic any more,
 We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
 Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea -- There is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool Beside the shore.
But though the pool is safe from storm And from the tide has found surcease, It grows more bitter than the sea, For all its peace.

by Ruth Stone | |

This Strangeness in My Life

It is so hard to see where it is,
but it is there even in the morning
when the miracle of shapes
assemble and become familiar,
but not quite; and the echo
of a voice, now changed,
utterly dissociated, as though
all warmth and shared sweetness
had never been.
It is this alien space, not stark as the moon, but lush and almost identical to the space that was.
But it is not.
It is another place and you are not what you were but as though emerging from the air, you slowly show yourself as someone else, not ever remembered.

by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Lord Kitchner

 Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee 
And face thy country's peril wheresoe'er, 
Directing war and peace with equal care, 
Till by long toil ennobled thou wert he 
Whom England call'd and bade "Set my arm free 
To obey my will and save my honour fair," -- 
What day the foe presumed on her despair 
And she herself had trust in none but thee: 

Among Herculean deeds the miracle 
That mass'd the labour of ten years in one 
Shall be thy monument.
Thy work was done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.

by Petrarch | |



Amor ed io sì pien di maraviglia.


As one who sees a thing incredible,
In mutual marvel Love and I combine,
Confessing, when she speaks or smiles divine,
None but herself can be her parallel.
[Pg 154]Where the fine arches of that fair brow swell
So sparkle forth those twin true stars of mine,
Than whom no safer brighter beacons shine
His course to guide who'd wisely love and well.
What miracle is this, when, as a flower,
She sits on the rich grass, or to her breast,
Snow-white and soft, some fresh green shrub is press'd
And oh! how sweet, in some fair April hour,
To see her pass, alone, in pure thought there,
Weaving fresh garlands in her own bright hair.

by Petrarch | |


[Pg 92]


Quando giugne per gli occhi al cor profondo.


When reaches through the eyes the conscious heart
Its imaged fate, all other thoughts depart;
The powers which from the soul their functions take
A dead weight on the frame its limbs then make.
From the first miracle a second springs,
At times the banish'd faculty that brings,
So fleeing from itself, to some new seat,
Which feeds revenge and makes e'en exile sweet.
Thus in both faces the pale tints were rife,
Because the strength which gave the glow of life
On neither side was where it wont to dwell—
I on that day these things remember'd well,
Of that fond couple when each varying mien
Told me in like estate what long myself had been.

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |


 I imagine them walking down rocky paths
toward me, strong, Italian women returning
at dusk from fields where they worked all day
on farms built like steps up the sides
of steep mountains, graceful women carrying water
in terra cotta jugs on their heads.
What I know of these women, whom I never met, I know from my mother, a few pictures of my grandmother, standing at the doorway of the fieldstone house in Santo Mauro, the stories my mother told of them, but I know them most of all from watching my mother, her strong arms lifting sheets out of the cold water in the wringer washer, or from the way she stepped back, wiping her hands on her homemade floursack apron, and admired her jars of canned peaches that glowed like amber in the dim cellar light.
I see those women in my mother as she worked, grinning and happy, in her garden that spilled its bounty into her arms.
She gave away baskets of peppers, lettuce, eggplant, gave away bowls of pasts, meatballs, zeppoli, loaves of homemade bread.
"It was a miracle," she said.
"The more I gave away, the more I had to give.
" Now I see her in my daughter, the same unending energy, that quick mind, that hand, open and extended to the world.
When I watch my daughter clean the kitchen counter, watch her turn, laughing, I remember my mother as she lay dying, how she said of my daughter, "that Jennifer, she's all the treasure you'll ever need.
" I turn now, as my daughter turns, and see my mother walking toward us down crooked mountain paths, behind her, all those women dressed in black Copyright 1998 © Maria Mazziotti Gillan.
All rights reserved.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 DREADED Brama, lord of might!

All proceed from thee alone;
Thou art he who judgeth right!

Dost thou none but Brahmins own?
Do but Rajahs come from thee?

None but those of high estate?

Didst not thou the ape create,
Aye, and even such as we?

We are not of noble kind,

For with woe our lot is rife;
And what others deadly find

Is our only source of life.
Let this be enough for men, Let them, if they will, despise us; But thou, Brama, thou shouldst prize us, All are equal in thy ken.
Now that, Lord, this prayer is said, As thy child acknowledge me; Or let one be born in-stead, Who may link me on to thee! Didst not thou a Bayadere As a goddess heavenward raise? And we too to swell thy praise, Such a miracle would hear.

by Louisa May Alcott | |


 Mysterious death! who in a single hour 
Life's gold can so refine 
And by thy art divine 
Change mortal weakness to immortal power! 

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years 
Spent with the noble strife 
of a victorious life 
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung A miracle was wrought; And swift as happy thought She lived again -- brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore And showed the tender eyes Of angels in disguise, Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair; While memory and love, Together, fondly wove A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft, When every pang of grief found balm for its relief In counting up the treasures she had left?-- Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time; Hope that defied despair; Patience that conquered care; And loyalty, whose courage was sublime; The great deep heart that was a home for all-- Just, eloquent, and strong In protest against wrong; Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall; The spartan spirit that made life so grand, Mating poor daily needs With high, heroic deeds, That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, Full of the grateful peace That follows her release; For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen Than in the laying down Of sceptre and of crown To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen; Teaching us how to seek the highest goal, To earn the true success -- To live, to love, to bless -- And make death proud to take a royal soul.

by John Crowe Ransom | |

Prelude to an Evening

 Do not enforce the tired wolf
Dragging his infected wound homeward
To sit tonight with the warm children
Naming the pretty kings of France.
The images of the invaded mind Being as the monsters in the dreams Of your most brief enchanted headful, Suppose a miracle of confusion: That dreamed and undreamt become each other And mix the night and day of your mind; And it does not matter your twice crying From mouth unbeautied against the pillow To avert the gun of the same old soldier; For cry, cock-crow, or the iron bell Can crack the sleep-sense of outrage, Annihilate phantoms who were nothing.
But now, by our perverse supposal, There is a drift of fog on your mornings; You in your peignoir, dainty at your orange cup, Feel poising round the sunny room Invisible evil, deprived and bold.
All day the clock will metronome Your gallant fear; the needles clicking, The heels detonating the stair's cavern Freshening the water in the blue bowls For the buck berries, with not all your love, You shall he listening for the low wind, The warning sibilance of pines.
You like a waning moon, and I accusing Our too banded Eumenides, While you pronounce Noes wanderingly And smooth the heads of the hungry children.

by Philip Larkin | |

Is It For Now Or For Always

 Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting-place,
The woods we have found to walk?

Is it a mirage or miracle,
Your lips that lift at mine:
And the suns like a juggler's juggling-balls,
Are they a sham or a sign?

Shine out, my sudden angel,
Break fear with breast and brow,
I take you now and for always,
For always is always now.

by Adrienne Rich | |

Miracle Ice Cream

 Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.
Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news, fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions, the rest of your heart.

by Nancy Willard | |

A Wreath To The Fish

 Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,
flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,
its suit of mail proof only against the stream?
What is it to live in a stream,
to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,
never to leave your shining birthsuit,
never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?
And who is the stream, who lolls all day
in an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,
singing, a little mad in the head,
opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,
eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging for
news from the interior-oh, who are these lines
that link a big sky to a small stream
that go down for great things:
the cold muscle of the trout,
the shinning scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,
hooked-but who is this hook, this cunning
and faithful fanatic who will not let go
but holds the false bait and the true worm alike
and tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basket
in which it will ride to the kitchen
of someone important, perhaps the Pope
who rejoices that his cook has found such a fish
and blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,
"Children, what is it to live in the stream,
day after day, and come at last to the table,
transfigured with spices and herbs,
a little martyr, a little miracle;
children, children, who is this fish?"

by John Wilmot | |

Love and Life

 All my past life is mine no more, 
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I, by miracle, can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

by John Wilmot | |

All My Past Life...

 All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
What ever is to come is not, How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot, And that as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is wholly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows, Ii, by miracle, can be, This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that heaven allows.

by Robert William Service | |


 Each time that I switch on the light
A Miracle it seems to me
That I should rediscover sight
And banish dark so utterly.
One moment I am bleakly blind, The next--exultant life I find.
Below the sable of the sky My eyelids double darkness make.
Sleep is divine, yet oh how I Am glad with wonder to awake! To welcome, glimmery and wan The mighty Miracle of Dawn.
For I've mad moments when I seem, With all the marvel of a child, To dwell within a world of dream, To sober fact unreconciled.
Each simple act has struck me thus-- Incredibly miraculous.
When everything I see and do So magical can seem to me, How vain it is to seek the True, The riddle of Reality .
So let me with joy lyrical Proclaim all Life a Miracle!

by Robert William Service | |

May Miracle

 On this festive first of May,
Wending wistfully my way
Three sad sights I saw today.
The first was such a lovely lad He lit with grace the sordid street; Yet in a monk's robe he was clad, With tonsured head and sandalled feet.
Though handsome as a movie star His eyes had holiness in them, As if he saw afaint, afar A stable-stall in Bethlehem.
The second was a crippled maid Who gazed and gazed with eager glance Into a window that displayed The picture of a ballet dance.
And as she leaned on crutches twain, Before that poster garland-gay She looked so longingly and vain I thought she'd never go away.
The last one was a sightless man Who to the tune of a guitar Caught coppers in a dingy can, Patient and sad as blind men are.
So old and grey and grimy too, His fingers fumbled on the strings, As emptily he looked at you, And sang as only sorrow sings.
Then I went home and had a dream That seemed fantastical to me.
I saw the youth with eye agleam Put off his robe and dance with glee.
The maid her crutches threw away; Her withered limbs seemed shapely fine; And there the two with radiance gay Divinely danced in soft entwine: While the blind man, his sight restored, Guitared the Glory of the Lord.

by Robert William Service | |

Man Child

 All day he lay upon the sand
When summer sun was bright,
And let the grains sift through his hand
With infantile delight;
Just like a child, so soft and fair,
Though he was twenty-five -
An innocent, my mother -care
Had kept so long alive.
Oh it is hard to bear a cross For five-and-twenty years; A daft son and a husband's loss Are woes out-weighing tears.
Yet bright and beautiful was he, Though barely could he walk; And when he signaled out to sea His talk was baby talk.
The man I loved was drowned out there When we were ten weeks wed.
'Tis bitter hard a boy to bear That's fathered by the dead.
And now I give my life to him Because he needs me so; And as I look my sight is dim With pity, love and woe.
Then suddenly I see him rise, Tall, stalwart and serene .
Lo! There he stands before my eyes, The man he might have been.
"Dear Mother mine," I hear him say, "The curse that bound me fast, Some miracle has swept away, And all you pain is past.
Now I am strong and sane and free, And you shall have your due; For as you loved and cherished me, I'll love and cherish you.
" His kisses sooth away my pain, His clasp is paradise .
Then - then I look at him again With terror in my eyes: For down he sinks upon the sand, And heavy droops his head; The golden grains drift through his hand .
I know - my boy is dead.

by Jean Toomer | |

Evening Song

 Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,
Lakes and moon and fires,
Cloine tires,
Holding her lips apart.
Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon, Miracle made vesper-keeps, Cloine sleeps, And I'll be sleeping soon.
Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters whtere the moonwaves start, Radiant, resplendently she gleams, Cloine dreams, Lips pressed against my heart.

by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 78 part 2

 Israel's rebellion and punishment.
O What a stiff rebellious house Was Jacob's ancient race! False to their own most solemn vows, And to their Maker's grace.
They broke the cov'nant of his love, And did his laws despise; Forgot the works he wrought to prove His power before their eyes.
They saw the plagues on Egypt light From his revenging hand; What dreadful tokens of his might Spread o'er the stubborn land! They saw him cleave the mighty sea, And marched in safety through, With wat'ry walls to guard their way, Till they had 'scaped the foe.
A wondrous pillar marked the road, Composed of shade and light; By day it proved a shelt'ring cloud, A leading fire by night.
He from the rock their thirst supplied The gushing waters fell, And ran in rivers by their side, A constant miracle.
Yet they provoked the Lord most High, And dared distrust his hand: "Can he with bread our host supply Amidst this desert land?" The Lord with indignation heard, And caused his wrath to flame; His terrors ever stand prepared To vindicate his name.

by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Professor Newcomer

 Everyone laughed at Col.
Prichard For buying an engine so powerful That it wrecked itself, and wrecked the grinder He ran it with.
But here is a joke of cosmic size: The urge of nature that made a man Evolve from his brain a spiritual life -- Oh miracle of the world! -- The very same brain with which the ape and wolf Get food and shelter and procreate themselves.
Nature has made man do this, In a world where she gives him nothing to do After all -- (though the strength of his soul goes round In a futile waste of power.
To gear itself to the mills of the gods) -- But get food and shelter and procreate himself!

by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |


 You came – 
because I was large,
because I was roaring,
but on close inspection
you saw a mere boy.
You seized and snatched away my heart and began to play with it – like a girl with a bouncing ball.
And before this miracle every woman was either a lady astounded or a maiden inquiring: “Love such a fellow? Why, he'll pounce on you! She must be a lion tamer, a girl from the zoo!” But I was triumphant.
I didn’t feel it – the yoke! Oblivious with joy, I jumped and leapt about, a bride-happy redskin, I felt so elated and light.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.

by Anne Killigrew | |

On a young Lady Whose LORD was Travelling.

 NO sooner I pronounced Celindas name,
But Troops of wing'd Pow'rs did chant the fame: 
Not those the Poets Bows and Arrows lend, 
But such as on the Altar do attend.
Celinda nam'd, Flow'rs spring up from the Ground, Excited meerly with the Charming Sound.
Celinda, the Courts Glory, and its fear, The gaz'd at Wonder, where she does appear.
Celinda great in Birth, greater in Meen, Yet none so humble as this Fair-One's seen.
Her Youth and Beauty justly might disdain, But the least Pride her Glories ne're did stain.
Celinda of each State th'ambitious Strife, At once a Noble Virgin, and a Wife Who, while her Gallant Lord in Forraign parts Adorns his Youth with all accomplisht Arts, Grows ripe at home in Vertue, more than Years, And in each Grace a Miracle appears ! When other of her Age a madding go, To th' Park and Plays, and ev'ry publick Show, Proud from their Parents Bondage they have broke, Though justly freed, she still does wear the Yoke; Preferring more her Mothers Friend to be, Than Idol of the Towns Loose-Gallantry.
On her she to the Temple does attend, Where they their Blessed Hours both save and spend.
They Smile, they Joy, together they do Pray, You'd think two Bodies did One Soul obey: Like Angels thus they do reflect their Bliss, And their bright Vertues each the other kiss.
Return young Lord, while thou abroad dost rome The World to see, thou loosest Heaven at Home.