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Best Famous John Mccrae Poems

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

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Poems are below...


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Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

Equality

 I saw a King, who spent his life to weave
Into a nation all his great heart thought,
Unsatisfied until he should achieve
The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
And all men said, "He gave his life to teach
The task of honour to a sordid land!"
Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
One at his humble toil with cheery face,
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.
If he be greater that his people blessed Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

Anarchy

 I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear, While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
"Speak not of God! In centuries that word Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we.
" And God stretched forth his finger as He heard And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

The Warrior

 He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --
Yet couraged for the battles of the day
He goes to stand full face to face with life.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

The Harvest Of The Sea

 The earth grows white with harvest; all day long
The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves
Her web of silence o'er the thankful song
Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.
The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear, And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap; But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

Slumber Songs

 I

Sleep, little eyes
That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh
Against the joys that throng thy coming day.
Sleep, little heart! There is no place in Slumberland for tears: Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears And sorrows that will dim the after years.
Sleep, little heart! II Ah, little eyes Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago, That life's storm crushed and left to lie below The benediction of the falling snow! Sleep, little heart That ceased so long ago its frantic beat! The years that come and go with silent feet Have naught to tell save this -- that rest is sweet.
Dear little heart.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

In Due Season

 If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone.
"
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

Recompense

 I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn,
To whom came one in angel guise and said,
"Is it for labour that a man is born?
Lo: I am Ease.
Come ye and eat my bread!" Then gladly one forsook his task undone And with the Tempter went his slothful way, The other toiled until the setting sun With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.
Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.
"Labour hath other recompense than rest, Else were the toiler like the fool," I said; "God meteth him not less, but rather more Because he sowed and others reaped his store.
"
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

The Night Cometh

 Cometh the night.
The wind falls low, The trees swing slowly to and fro: Around the church the headstones grey Cluster, like children strayed away But found again, and folded so.
No chiding look doth she bestow: If she is glad, they cannot know; If ill or well they spend their day, Cometh the night.
Singing or sad, intent they go; They do not see the shadows grow; "There yet is time," they lightly say, "Before our work aside we lay"; Their task is but half-done, and lo! Cometh the night.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

In Flanders Field

 In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead.
Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Written by John McCrae | Create an image from this poem

Unsolved

 Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best That I should tread, with men their human ways.
" God took the teacher, ere the task was learned, And to my lonely books again I turned.
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