We are working on the website today. Unfortunately, all emailing features are down.
Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Stress Poems

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

Search for the best famous Stress poems, articles about Stress poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Stress poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Thee God I Come from

 Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, 
All day long I like fountain flow 
From thy hand out, swayed about 
Mote-like in thy mighty glow.
What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.
Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.
Bad I am, but yet thy child.
Father, be thou reconciled.
Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.
I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.
But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Harry Ploughman

 Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank—
 Head and foot, shoulder and shank—
By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress.
Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thew That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank— Soared or sank—, Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do— His sinew-service where do.
He leans to it, Harry bends, look.
Back, elbow, and liquid waist In him, all quail to the wallowing o' the plough: 's cheek crimsons; curls Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced— See his wind- lilylocks -laced; Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls Them—broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls— With-a-fountain's shining-shot furls.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Wordsworth

 Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 
Among the mountains, and thy song is fed 
By living springs far up the watershed; 
No whirling flood nor parching drought controls 
The crystal current: even on the shoals
It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread, 
Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.
But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy.
Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.


by Edgar Albert Guest | |

Thanksgiving

 (For John Bunker)

The roar of the world is in my ears.
Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, And the sting of His chastening rod! Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, And Oh, thank God for God!


by Tupac Shakur | |

Untitled 2

With all this extra stressing the question I wonder is after death
After my last breath
When will I finally get to rest from this oppression?
They punish the people that's asking questions
And those that possess steal from the ones without possessions
The message I stress
To make you stop study your lessons
Don't settle for less
Even the genius asks his questions
Be grateful for blessings
Don't ever change, keep your essense
The power is in the people and politics we address
Always do your best
Don't let the pressure make you panic
And when you get stranded and things don't go the way you planned it
Dreaming of riches in the position of making a difference
Politicians is hypocrites
They don't want to listen
If I'm insane it's the fame
I ain't about to change
It ain't nothing like the game
It's just me against the world 


by Tupac Shakur | |

Untitled 1

Father forgive us for living
Why are all my homies stuck in prison?
Barely breathing, believing that this world is a prison
It's like a ghetto we can never leave
A broken rose giving bloom through the cracks of the concrete
So many things for us to see
Things to be
Our history so full of tragedy and misery
To all the homies who never made it home
The dead peers I shed tattooed tears for when I'm alone
Picture us inside a ghetto heaven
A place to rest finding peace through this land of stress
In my chest I feel pain come in sudden storms
A life full of rain in this game watch for land thorns
Our unborn never got to grow, never got to see what's next
In this world filled with countless threats
I beg God to find a way for our ghetto kids to breath
Show a sign make us all believe 


by Sidney Lanier | |

Struggle

 My soul is like the oar that momently
Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave,
Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea:
Each second I'm new-born from some new grave.


by Emma Lazarus | |

Echoes

 THE MIGHT that shaped itself through storm and stress
In chaos, here is lulled in breathing sweet;
Under the long brown ridge in gentleness
 Its fierce old pulses beat.
Quiet and sad we go at eve; the fire That woke exultant in an earlier day Is dead; the memories of old desire Only in shadows play.
We liken love to this and that; our thought The echo of a deeper being seems: We kiss, because God once for beauty sought Within a world of dreams.


by Amy Levy | |

In the Black Forest

 I lay beneath the pine trees,
And looked aloft, where, through
The dusky, clustered tree-tops,
Gleamed rent, gay rifts of blue.
I shut my eyes, and a fancy Fluttered my sense around: "I lie here dead and buried, And this is churchyard ground.
"I am at rest for ever; Ended the stress and strife.
" Straight I fell to and sorrowed For the pitiful past life.
Right wronged, and knowledge wasted; Wise labour spurned for ease; The sloth and the sin and the failure; Did I grow sad for these? They had made me sad so often; Not now they made me sad; My heart was full of sorrow For joy it never had.


by Amy Levy | |

The End of the Day

 To B.
T.
Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away.
-- The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o'er.
Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.
* * * * * * * All day we have plied the oar; all day Eager and keen have said our say On life and death, on love and art, On good or ill at Nature's heart.
Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift The lazy oars, but onward drift.
And the silence is only stirred Here and there by a broken word.
* * * * * * * O, sweeter far than strain and stress Is the slow, creeping weariness.
And better far than thought I find The drowsy blankness of the mind.
More than all joys of soul or sense Is this divine indifference; Where grief a shadow grows to be, And peace a possibility.


by Sarojini Naidu | |

To The God of Pain

 UNWILLING priestess in thy cruel fane, 
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain, 
Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows, 
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows 
Anointed with perpetual weariness.
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights, Performing thine inexorable rites.
For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice: All the rich honey of my youth's desire, And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn, And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.
I have no more to give, all that was mine Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine; Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung, And all my cheerless orisons are sung; Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Queen Henrietta Maria

 (To Ellen Terry)

In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face Made for the luring and the love of man! With thee I do forget the toil and stress, The loveless road that knows no resting place, Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, My freedom, and my life republican!


by Robert William Service | |

Learn To Like

 School yourself to savour most
Joys that have but little cost;
Prove the best of life is free,
Sun and stars and sky and sea;
Eager in your eyes to please,
Proffer meadows, brooks and trees;
Nature strives for your content,
Never charging you a cent.
Learn to love a garden gay, Flowers and fruit in rich array.
Care for dogs and singing birds, Have for children cheery words.
Find plain food and comfort are More than luxury by far.
Music, books and honest friends Outweigh golden dividends.
Love your work and do it well, Scorning not a leisure spell.
Hold the truest form of wealth Body fit and ruddy health.
Let your smile of happiness Rustic peace serenely stress: Home to love and heart to pray-- Thank your God for every day.


by Barry Tebb | |

THE PRISM

 Through the windows the sun’s light

Turns to amber, the moon’s to jade;

All night long I lie awake, wondering

How much your stunned heart can take.
That moment’s ‘sudden interminable splendour’, Our love kept up through the years of stress, Strange dark-haired creature, the light over the water Burns and beckons through our emptiness.


by John Keats | |

If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chaind

 If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
 And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
 Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
 By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
 Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
 Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
 She will be bound with garlands of her own.


by John Keats | |

To Byron

 Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! 
Attuning still the soul to tenderness, 
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, 
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, 
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.


by William Shakespeare | |

Sonnet I

 NOR judge me light, tho' light at times I seem,
And lightly in the stress of fortune bear
The innumerable flaws of changeful care -
Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem
(Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme
And separate the prerogative of God!)
That seaman idle who is borne abroad
To the far haven by the favouring stream.
Not he alone that to contrarious seas Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar, Not he alone, by high success endeared, Shall reach the Port; but, winged, with some light breeze Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered.


by Thomas Hardy | |

I Need Not Go

 I need not go 
Through sleet and snow 
To where I know 
She waits for me; 
She will wait me there 
Till I find it fair, 
And have time to spare 
From company.
When I've overgot The world somewhat, When things cost not Such stress and strain, Is soon enough By cypress sough To tell my Love I am come again.
And if some day, When none cries nay, I still delay To seek her side, (Though ample measure Of fitting leisure Await my pleasure) She will riot chide.
What--not upbraid me That I delayed me, Nor ask what stayed me So long? Ah, no! - New cares may claim me, New loves inflame me, She will not blame me, But suffer it so.


by Thomas Hardy | |

The Last Chrysanthemum

 Why should this flower delay so long 
 To show its tremulous plumes? 
Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, 
 When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun Called to each frond and whorl That all he could for flowers was being done, Why did it not uncurl? It must have felt that fervid call Although it took no heed, Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, And saps all retrocede.
Too late its beauty, lonely thing, The season's shine is spent, Nothing remains for it but shivering In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay, Dreaming in witlessness That for a bloom so delicately gay Winter would stay its stress? - I talk as if the thing were born With sense to work its mind; Yet it is but one mask of many worn By the Great Face behind.