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Best Famous Caring Poems

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

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Written by Alice Walker | Create an image from this poem

We Alone

We alone can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold there is a chain, you know, and if your chain is gold so much the worse for you.
Feathers, shells and sea-shaped stones are all as rare.
This could be our revolution: to love what is plentiful as much as what's scarce.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

November Evening

 Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.
Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; 'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming, Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.
Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.
Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener, Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener; And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging, Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.
Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden Garlanded with her hopes­rather the woman laden With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.
Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places, The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces; Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming, We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Doc Hill

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why? My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral, And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able To hold to the railing of the new life When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree At the grave, Hiding herself, and her grief!
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Fear

 A lantern light from deeper in the barn
Shone on a man and woman in the door
And threw their lurching shadows on a house
Near by, all dark in every glossy window.
A horse's hoof pawed once the hollow floor, And the back of the gig they stood beside Moved in a little.
The man grasped a wheel, The woman spoke out sharply, "Whoa, stand still!" "I saw it just as plain as a white plate," She said, "as the light on the dashboard ran Along the bushes at the roadside--a man's face.
You must have seen it too.
" "I didn't see it.
Are you sure----" "Yes, I'm sure!" "--it was a face?" "Joel, I'll have to look.
I can't go in, I can't, and leave a thing like that unsettled.
Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.
I always have felt strange when we came home To the dark house after so long an absence, And the key rattled loudly into place Seemed to warn someone to be getting out At one door as we entered at another.
What if I'm right, and someone all the time-- Don't hold my arm!" "I say it's someone passing.
" "You speak as if this were a travelled road.
You forget where we are.
What is beyond That he'd be going to or coming from At such an hour of night, and on foot too.
What was he standing still for in the bushes?" "It's not so very late--it's only dark.
There's more in it than you're inclined to say.
Did he look like----?" "He looked like anyone.
I'll never rest to-night unless I know.
Give me the lantern.
" "You don't want the lantern.
" She pushed past him and got it for herself.
"You're not to come," she said.
"This is my business.
If the time's come to face it, I'm the one To put it the right way.
He'd never dare-- Listen! He kicked a stone.
Hear that, hear that! He's coming towards us.
Joel, go in--please.
Hark!--I don't hear him now.
But please go in.
" "In the first place you can't make me believe it's----" "It is--or someone else he's sent to watch.
And now's the time to have it out with him While we know definitely where he is.
Let him get off and he'll be everywhere Around us, looking out of trees and bushes Till I sha'n't dare to set a foot outdoors.
And I can't stand it.
Joel, let me go!" "But it's nonsense to think he'd care enough.
" "You mean you couldn't understand his caring.
Oh, but you see he hadn't had enough-- Joel, I won't--I won't--I promise you.
We mustn't say hard things.
You mustn't either.
" "I'll be the one, if anybody goes! But you give him the advantage with this light.
What couldn't he do to us standing here! And if to see was what he wanted, why He has seen all there was to see and gone.
" He appeared to forget to keep his hold, But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.
"What do you want?" she cried to all the dark.
She stretched up tall to overlook the light That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.
"There's no one; so you're wrong," he said.
"There is.
-- What do you want?" she cried, and then herself Was startled when an answer really came.
" It came from well along the road.
She reached a hand to Joel for support: The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.
"What are you doing round this house at night?" "Nothing.
" A pause: there seemed no more to say.
And then the voice again: "You seem afraid.
I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.
I'll just come forward in the lantern light And let you see.
" "Yes, do.
--Joel, go back!" She stood her ground against the noisy steps That came on, but her body rocked a little.
"You see," the voice said.
" She looked and looked.
"You don't see--I've a child here by the hand.
" "What's a child doing at this time of night----?" "Out walking.
Every child should have the memory Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.
What, son?" "Then I should think you'd try to find Somewhere to walk----" "The highway as it happens-- We're stopping for the fortnight down at Dean's.
" "But if that's all--Joel--you realize-- You won't think anything.
You understand? You understand that we have to be careful.
This is a very, very lonely place.
Joel!" She spoke as if she couldn't turn.
The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground, It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Asking For Roses

 A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; 'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.
' 'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 'But one we must ask if we want any roses.
' So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?' 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
'A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.
' We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Grindstone

 Having a wheel and four legs of its own
Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone
To get it anywhere that I can see.
These hands have helped it go, and even race; Not all the motion, though, they ever lent, Not all tke miles it may have thought it went, Have got it one step from the starting place.
It stands beside the same old apple tree.
The shadow of the apple tree is thin Upon it now its feet as fast in snow.
All other farm machinery's gone in, And some of it on no more legs and wheel Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go.
(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.
) For months it hasn't known the taste of steel Washed down with rusty water in a tin.
But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold, Except in towns at night is not a sin.
And> anyway, it's standing in the yard Under a ruinous live apple tree Has nothing any more to do with me, Except that I remember how of old One summer day, all day I drove it hard, And someone mounted on it rode it hard And he and I between us ground a blade.
I gave it the preliminary spin And poured on water (tears it might have been); And when it almost gaily jumped and flowed, A Father-Time-like man got on and rode, Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.
He turned on will-power to increase the load And slow me down -- and I abruptly slowed, Like coming to a sudden railroad station.
I changed from hand to hand in desperation.
I wondered what machine of ages gone This represented an improvement on.
For all I knew it may have sharpened spears And arrowheads itself.
Much use.
for years Had gradually worn it an oblate Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait, Appearing to return me hate for hate; (But I forgive it now as easily As any other boyhood enemy Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere).
I wondered who it was the man thought ground -The one who held the wheel back or the one Who gave his life to keep it going round? · I wondered if he really thought it fair For him to have the say when we were done.
Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.
Not for myself was I so much concerned Oh no --Although, of course, I could have found A better way to pass the afternoon Than grinding discord out of a grindstone, And beating insects at their gritty tune.
Nor was I for the man so much concerned.
Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing It looked as if he might be badly thrown And wounded on his blade.
So far from caring, I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster (It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued); I'd welcome any moderate disaster That might be calculated to postpone What evidently nothing could conclude.
The thing that made me more and more afraid Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known, And now were only wasting precious blade.
And when he raised it dripping once and tried The creepy edge of it with wary touch And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed, Only disinterestedly to decide It needed a turn more, I could have cried Wasn't there a danger of a turn too much? Mightn't we make it worse instead of better? I was for leaving something to the whettot.
What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied.
Written by Stanley Kunitz | Create an image from this poem

The Long Boat

 When his boat snapped loose
from its mooring, under
the screaking of the gulls,
he tried at first to wave
to his dear ones on shore,
but in the rolling fog
they had already lost their faces.
Too tired even to choose between jumping and calling, somehow he felt absolved and free of his burdens, those mottoes stamped on his name-tag: conscience, ambition, and all that caring.
He was content to lie down with the family ghosts in the slop of his cradle, buffeted by the storm, endlessly drifting.
Peace! Peace! To be rocked by the Infinite! As if it didn't matter which way was home; as if he didn't know he loved the earth so much he wanted to stay forever.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Second Voyage

 We've sent our little Cupids all ashore --
 They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold:
Our sails of silk and purple go to store,
 And we've cut away our mast of beaten gold
  (Foul weather!)
Oh 'tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine,
 But Love he is our master as of old!

The sea has shorn our galleries away,
 The salt has soiled our gilding past remede;
Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray,
 Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed
  (Foul weather!)
And the Doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead,
 But Love he was our master at our need!

'Was Youth would keep no vigil at the bow,
 'Was Pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer --
We've shipped three able quartermasters now.
Men call them Custom, Reverence, and Fear (Foul weather!) They are old and scarred and plain, but we'll run no risk again From any Port o' Paphos mutineer! We seek no more the tempest for delight, We skirt no more the indraught and the shoal -- We ask no more of any day or night Than to come with least adventure to our goal (Foul weather!) What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look, Nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole.
Yet, caring so, not overmuch we care To brace and trim for every foolish blast, If the squall be pleased to seep us unaware, He may bellow off to leeward like the last (Foul weather!) We will blame it on the deep (for the watch must have their sleep), And Love can come and wake us when 'tis past.
Oh launch them down with music from the beach, Oh warp them out with garlands from the quays -- Most resolute -- a damsel unto each -- New prows that seek the old Hesperides! (Foul weather!) Though we know their voyage is vain, yet we see our path again In the saffroned bridesails scenting all the seas! (Foul weather!)
Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

In Memoriam A. H. H.: 131. O living will that shalt endure

 O living will that shalt endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,
That we may lift from out of dust
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer'd years
To one that with us works, and trust,
With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
And all we flow from, soul in soul.
------ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song.
Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm.
Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade.
But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise.
O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose.
For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good.
And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear.
For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear.
The ring is on, The "wilt thou" answer'd, and again The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet "I will" has made you one.
Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign'd, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells.
O happy hour, and happier hours Await them.
Many a merry face Salutes them--maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers.
O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave.
They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side.
To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea.
Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France.
It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days.
Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.
But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour'd horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.
A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look'd, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew.
Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance,--till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o'er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro' the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro' life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

A Boy in Church

 “Gabble-gabble,… brethren,… gabble-gabble!” 
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.
The parson’s voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks.
I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch.
“Prayer,” says the kind voice, “is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again.
” I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there’s not the least mistake.
(Look! there’s a plover! It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses.
It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God….
But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.