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Best Famous Diversion Poems

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Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

87. The Twa Dogs

 ’TWAS 1 in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
 The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
 His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar
Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;
But though he was o’ high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
 The tither was a ploughman’s collie—
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,
And in freak had Luath ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland Sang, 2
Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.
 He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
 Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
And unco pack an’ thick thegither;
Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit;
Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion,
An’ worry’d ither in diversion;
Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An’ there began a lang digression.
About the “lords o’ the creation.”


CÆSAR I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
 Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel’;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;
He draws a bonie silken purse,
As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks,
The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
 Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan
Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie,
That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honour has in a’ the lan’:
An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it’s past my comprehension.


LUATH Trowth, C&æsar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an’ sic like;
Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,
An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep
Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
 An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.


CÆSAR But then to see how ye’re negleckit,
How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
 I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,—
An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,—
Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash,
How they maun thole a factor’s snash;
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear
He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!
 I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!


LUATH They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,
They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,
The view o’t gives them little fright.
 Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They’re aye in less or mair provided:
An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
 The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
 An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
 As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of ev’ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
 That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win’s;
The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi’ right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin thro’ the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
 Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d;
There’s mony a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an’ branch,
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi’ some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin—


CÆSAR Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him:
At operas an’ plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
 There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father’s auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
 Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
 For Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.


LUATH Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last?
 O would they stay aback frae courts,
An’ please themsels wi’ country sports,
It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk,
 But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar,
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The very thought o’t need na fear them.


CÆSAR L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them!
 It’s true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat:
They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a’ their colleges an’ schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel’s to vex them;
An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
 A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst,
Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless.
 An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping through public places,
There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
 The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
 The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
 There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
But this is gentry’s life in common.
 By this, the sun was out of sight,
An’ darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;
When up they gat an’ shook their lugs,
Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs;
An’ each took aff his several way,
Resolv’d to meet some ither day.


 Note 1. Luath was Burns’ own dog. [back]
Note 2. Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—R. B. [back]


Written by John Betjeman | Create an image from this poem

An Edwardian Sunday Broomhill Sheffield

 High dormers are rising
So sharp and surprising,
And ponticum edges
The driveways of gravel;
Stone houses from ledges
Look down on ravines.
The vision can travel
From gable to gable,
Italianate mansion
And turretted stable,
A sylvan expansion
So varied and jolly
Where laurel and holly
Commingle their greens.

Serene on a Sunday
The sun glitters hotly
O'er mills that on Monday
With engines will hum.
By tramway excursion
To Dore and to Totley
In search of diversion
The millworkers come;
But in our arboreta
The sounds are discreeter
Of shoes upon stone -
The worshippers wending
To welcoming chapel,
Companioned or lone;
And over a pew there
See loveliness lean,
As Eve shows her apple
Through rich bombazine;
What love is born new there
In blushing eighteen!

Your prospects will please her,
The iron-king's daughter,
Up here on Broomhill;
Strange Hallamshire, County
Of dearth and of bounty,
Of brown tumbling water
And furnace and mill.
Your own Ebenezer
Looks down from his height
On back street and alley
And chemical valley
Laid out in the light;
On ugly and pretty
Where industry thrives
In this hill-shadowed city
Of razors and knives.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

An Apology for my fearfull temper

 Tis true of courage I'm no mistress
No Boadicia nor Thalestriss
Nor shall I e'er be famed hereafter
For such a Soul as Cato's Daughter
Nor active valour nor enduring 
Nor leading troops nor forts securing
Like Teckley's wife or Pucell valiant
Will e'er be reckonded for my talent
Who all things fear whilst day is shining
And my own shadow light declining 
And from the Spleen's prolifick fountain
Can of a mole hill make a mountain
And if a Coach that was invented
Since Bess on Palfrey rode contented
Threatens to tumble topsy turvy 
With screeches loud and faces scurvey
I break discourse whilst some are laughing
Some fall to chear me some to chaffing
As secretly the driver curses
And whips my fault upon the horses 
These and ten thousand are the errours
Arising from tumultuous terrours
Yet can't I understand the merit
In Female's of a daring spirit
Since to them never was imparted 
In manly strengh tho' manly hearted
Nor need that sex be self defending
Who charm the most when most depending
And by sweet plaints and soft distresses
First gain asistance then adresses 
As our fourth Edward (beauty suing)
From but releiving fell to wooing
Who by Heroick speech or ranting
Had ne'er been melted to galanting
Nor had th'Egyptian Queen defying 
Drawn off that fleet she led by flying
Whilst Cesar and his ships crew hollow'd
To see how Tony row'd and follow'd
Oh Action triumph of the Ladies
And plea for her who most afraid is 
Then let my conduct work no wonder
When fame who cleaves the air asunder
And every thing in time discovers
Nor council keeps for Kings or Lovers
Yet stoops when tired with States and battles 
To Gossips chats and idler tattles
When she I say has given no knowledge
Of what has happen'd at Wye College
Think it not strange to save my Person
I gave the family diversion 
'Twas at an hour when most were sleeping
Some chimnies clean some wanted sweeping
Mine thro' good fires maintain'd this winter
(Of which no FINCH was e'er a stinter)
Pour'd down such flakes not Etna bigger 
Throws up as did my fancy figure
Nor does a Cannon ram'd with Powder
To others seem to Bellow louder
All that I thought or spoke or acted
Can't in a letter be compacted 
Nor how I threatn'd those with burning
Who thoughtless on their beds were turning
As Shakespear says they serv'd old Prium
When that the Greeks were got too nigh'em
And such th'effect in spite of weather 
Our Hecuba's all rose together
I at their head half cloath'd and shaking
Was instantly the house forsaking
And told them 'twas no time for talking
But who'd be safe had best be walking 
This hasty councel and conclusion
Seem'd harsh to those who had no shoes on
And saw no flames and heard no clatter
But as I had rehears'd the matter
And wildly talk't of fire and water 
For sooner then 'thas took to tell it
Right applications did repell it
And now my fear our mirth creating
Affords still subject for repeating
Whilst some deplore th'unusual folly 
Some (kinder) call it melancholy
Tho' certainly the spirits sinking
Comes not from want of wit or thinking
Since Rochester all dangers hated
And left to those were harder pated.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

An Evening in Dandaloo

 It was while we held our races -- 
Hurdles, sprints and steplechases -- 
Up in Dandaloo, 
That a crowd of Sydney stealers, 
Jockeys, pugilists and spielers 
Brought some horses, real heelers, 
Came and put us through. 
Beat our nags and won our money, 
Made the game by np means funny, 
Made us rather blue; 
When the racing was concluded, 
Of our hard-earned coin denuded 
Dandaloonies sat and brooded 
There in Dandaloo. 

* * * * * 

Night came down on Johnson's shanty 
Where the grog was no way scanty, 
And a tumult grew 
Till some wild, excited person 
Galloped down the township cursing, 
"Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, 
Roll up, Dandaloo!" 

Great St Denis! what commotion! 
Like the rush of stormy ocean 
Fiery horsemen flew. 
Dust and smoke and din and rattle, 
Down the street they spurred their cattle 
To the war-cry of the battle, 
"Wade in, Dandaloo!" 

So the boys might have their fight out, 
Johnson blew the bar-room light out, 
Then, in haste, withdrew. 
And in darkness and in doubting 
Raged the conflict and the shouting, 
"Give the Sydney push a clouting, 
Go it, Dandaloo!" 

Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, 
Every head he saw he struck it -- 
Struck in earnest, too; 
And a man from Lower Wattle, 
Whom a shearer tried to throttle, 
Hit out freely with a bottle 
There in Dandaloo. 

Skin and hair were flying thickly, 
When a light was fetched, and quickly 
Brought a fact to view -- 
On the scene of the diversion 
Every single, solid person 
Come along to help Macpherson -- 
All were Dandaloo! 

When the list of slain was tabled -- 
Some were drunk and some disabled -- 
Still we found it true. 
In the darkness and the smother 
We'd been belting one another; 
Jack Macpherson bashed his brother 
There in Dandaloo. 

So we drank, and all departed -- 
How the "mobbing" yarn was started 
No one ever knew -- 
And the stockmen tell the story 
Of that conflict fierce and gory, 
How he fought for love and glory 
Up in Dandaloo. 

It's a proverb now, or near it -- 
At the races you can hear it, 
At the dog-fights, too! 
Every shrieking, dancing drover 
As the canines topple over 
Yells applause to Grip or Rover, 
"Give him 'Dandaloo'!" 

And the teamster slowly toiling 
Through the deep black country, soiling 
Wheels and axles, too, 
Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, 
Rouses Tarboy with a flanker -- 
"Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her 
Wade in, Dandaloo!"
Written by C. E. Carryl | Create an image from this poem

Robinson Crusoe's Story

      The night was thick and hazy
      When the “Piccadilly Daisy”
Carried down the crew and captain in the sea;
      And I think the water drowned ’em;
      For they never, never found ’em
And I know they didn’t come ashore with me.
      Oh! ’twas very sad and lonely
      When I found myself the only
Population on this cultivated shore;
      But I’ve made a little tavern
      In a rocky little cavern,
And I sit and watch for people at the door.

      I spent no time in looking
      For a girl to do my cooking,
As I’m quite a clever hand at making stews;
      But I had that fellow Friday,
      Just to keep the tavern tidy,
And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

      I have a little garden
      That I’m cultivating lard in,
As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
      For I live on toasted lizards,
      Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,
And I’m really very fond of beetle-pie.

      The clothes I had were furry,
      And it made me fret and worry
When I found the moths were eating off the hair;
      And I had to scrape and sand ’em,
      And I boiled ’em and I tanned ’em,
Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.
      I sometimes seek diversion
      In a family excursion
With the few domestic animals you see;
      And we take along a carrot
      As refreshment for the parrot,
And a little can of jungleberry tea.

      Then we gather as we travel,
      Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of stone;
      And we carry home as prizes
      Funny bugs, of handy sizes,
Just to give the day a scientific tone.

      If the roads are wet and muddy
      We remain at home and study,—
For the Goat is very clever at a sum,—
      And the Dog, instead of fighting,
      Studies ornamental writing,
While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

      We retire at eleven,
      And we rise again at seven;
And I wish to call attention, as I close,
      To the fact that all the scholars
      Are correct about their collars,
And particular in turning out their toes.


Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

The Uses Of Poetry

 I've fond anticipation of a day
O'erfilled with pure diversion presently,
For I must read a lady poesy
The while we glide by many a leafy bay,

Hid deep in rushes, where at random play
The glossy black winged May-flies, or whence flee
Hush-throated nestlings in alarm,
Whom we have idly frighted with our boat's long sway.

For, lest o'ersaddened by such woes as spring
To rural peace from our meek onward trend,
What else more fit? We'll draw the latch-string

And close the door of sense; then satiate wend,
On poesy's transforming giant wing,
To worlds afar whose fruits all anguish mend.
Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Talking XX

 And then a scholar said, "Speak of Talking." 

And he answered, saying: 

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; 

And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime. 

And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. 

For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly. 

There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone. 

The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape. 

And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth which they themselves do not understand. 

And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words. 

In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence. 

When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue. 

Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear; 

For his soul will keep the truth of your heart as the taste of the wine is remembered 

When the color is forgotten and the vessel is no more.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Foreigner

 Have at you, you Devils!
My back's to this tree,
For you're nothing so nice
That the hind-side of me
Would escape your assault.
Come on now, all three!
Here's a dandified gentleman,
Rapier at point,
And a wrist which whirls round
Like a circular joint.
A spatter of blood, man!
That's just to anoint
And make supple your limbs.
'Tis a pity the silk
Of your waistcoat is stained.
Why! Your heart's full of milk,
And so full, it spills over!
I'm not of your ilk.
You said so, and laughed
At my old-fashioned hose,
At the cut of my hair,
At the length of my nose.
To carve it to pattern
I think you propose.
Your pardon, young Sir,
But my nose and my sword
Are proving themselves
In quite perfect accord.
I grieve to have spotted
Your shirt. On my word!
And hullo! You Bully!
That blade's not a stick
To slash right and left,
And my skull is too thick
To be cleft with such cuffs
Of a sword. Now a lick
Down the side of your face.
What a pretty, red line!
Tell the taverns that scar
Was an honour. Don't whine
That a stranger has marked you.
* * 
* * *
The tree's there, You Swine!
Did you think to get in
At the back, while your friends
Made a little diversion
In front? So it ends,
With your sword clattering down
On the ground. 'Tis amends
I make for your courteous
Reception of me,
A foreigner, landed
From over the sea.
Your welcome was fervent
I think you'll agree.
My shoes are not buckled
With gold, nor my hair
Oiled and scented, my jacket's
Not satin, I wear
Corded breeches, wide hats,
And I make people stare!
So I do, but my heart
Is the heart of a man,
And my thoughts cannot twirl
In the limited span
'Twixt my head and my heels,
As some other men's can.
I have business more strange
Than the shape of my boots,
And my interests range
From the sky, to the roots
Of this dung-hill you live in,
You half-rotted shoots
Of a mouldering tree!
Here's at you, once more.
You Apes! You Jack-fools!
You can show me the door,
And jeer at my ways,
But you're pinked to the core.
And before I have done,
I will prick my name in
With the front of my steel,
And your lily-white skin
Shall be printed with me.
For I've come here to win!
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Realisation

 Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot; 
Or so the unperceiving thought, 
Who looked no deeper than her face, 
Devoid of chiselled lines of grace –
No farther than her humble grate, 
And wondered how she bore her fate.

Yet she was neither lone nor sad; 
So much of love her spirit had, 
She found an ever-flowing spring
Of happiness in everything.

So near to her was Nature’s heart
It seemed a very living part
Of her own self; and bud and blade, 
And heat and cold, and sun and shade, 
And dawn and sunset, Spring and Fall, 
Held raptures for her, one and all.
The year’s four changing seasons brought
To her own door what thousands sought
In wandering ways and did not find –
Diversion and content of mind.

She loved the tasks that filled each day –
Such menial duties; but her way
Of looking at them lent a grace
To things the world deemed commonplace.

Obscure and without place or name, 
She gloried in another’s fame.
Poor, plain and humble in her dress, 
She thrilled when beauty and success
And wealth passed by, on pleasure bent; 
They made earth seem so opulent.
Yet none of quicker sympathy, 
When need or sorrow came, than she.
And so she lived, and so she died.

She woke as from a dream. How wide
And wonderful the avenue
That stretched to her astonished view! 
And up the green ascending lawn
A palace caught the rays of dawn.
Then suddenly the silence stirred
With one clear keynote of a bird; 
A thousand answered, till ere long
The air was quivering bits of song.
She rose and wandered forth in awe, 
Amazed and moved by all she saw, 
For, like so many souls who go

Away from earth, she did not know
The cord was severed.
Down the street, 
With eager arms stretched forth to greet, 
Came one she loved and mourned in youth; 
Her mother followed; then the truth
Broke on her, golden wave on wave, 
Of knowledge infinite. The grave, 
The body and the earthly sphere
Were gone! Immortal life was here! 
They led her through the Palace halls; 
From gleaming mirrors on the walls
She saw herself, with radiant mien, 
And robed in splendour like a queen, 
While glory round about her shone.
‘All this, ’ Love murmured, ‘is your own.’
And when she gazed with wondering eye, 
And questioned whence and where and why, 
Love answered thus: ‘All Heaven is made
By thoughts on earth; your walls were laid, 
Year after year, of purest gold; 
The beauty of your mind behold
In this fair palace; ay, and more
Waits farther on, so vast your store.
I was not worthy when I died
To take my place here at your side; 
I toiled through long and weary years
From lower planes to these high spheres; 
And through the love you sent from earth
I have attained a second birth.
Oft when my erring soul would tire
I felt the strength of your desire; 
I heard you breathe my name in prayer, 
And courage conquered weak despair.
Ah! earth needs heaven, but heaven indeed
Of earth has just as great a need! 

Across the terrace with a bound
There sped a lambkin with a hound
(Dumb comrades of the old earth land) 
And fondled her caressing hand.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Twas comfort in her Dying Room

 'Twas comfort in her Dying Room
To hear the living Clock --
A short relief to have the wind
Walk boldly up and knock --
Diversion from the Dying Theme
To hear the children play --
But wrong the more
That these could live
And this of ours must die.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry