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Best Famous God Speed Poems

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

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Written by Thomas Edward Brown | Create an image from this poem


 TO live within a cave--it is most good; 
 But, if God make a day, 
 And some one come, and say, 
'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!' 
 E'en let him stay, 
And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood! 

So sit till morning! when the light is grown 
 That he the path can read, 
 Then bid the man God-speed! 
His morning is not thine: yet must thou own 
They have a cheerful warmth--those ashes on the stone.

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

To J.W

 Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves; Nor seek to unwind the shroud Which charitable time And nature have allowed To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves; Care not to strip the dead Of his sad ornament; His myrrh, and wine, and rings, His sheet of lead, And trophies buried; Go get them where he earned them when alive, As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste The critic bite or cynic bark, Quarrel, or reprimand; 'Twill soon be dark; Up! mind thine own aim, and God speed the mark.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Record

 Fearing that she might go one day
With some fine fellow of her choice,
I called her from her childish play,
And made a record of her voice.
And now that she is truly gone, I hear it sweet and crystal clear From out my wheezy gramophone: "I love you, Daddy dear.
" Indeed it's true she went away, But Oh she went all, all alone; Into the dark she went for aye, Poor little mite! ere girlhood grown.
Ah that I could with her have gone! But this is all I have to show - A ghost voice on a gramophone: "Dear Dad, I love you so.
" The saddest part of loss 'tis said, Is that time tempers our regret; But that is treason to the dead - I'll not forget, I'll not forget.
Sole souvenir of golden years, 'Twas best to break this disc in two, And spare myself a spate of tears .
But this I cannot do.
So I will play it every day, And it will seem that she is near, And once again I'll hear her say: I love you so, Oh Daddy dear.
" And then her kiss - a stab of woe.
The record ends .
I breathe a plea: "Oh God, speed me to where I know Wee lass, you wait for me.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Little Pierres Song

 In a humble room in London sat a pretty little boy,
By the bedside of his sick mother her only joy,
Who was called Little Pierre, and who's father was dead;
There he sat poor boy, hungry and crying for bread.
There he sat humming a little song, which was his own, But to the world it was entirely unknown, And as he sang the song he felt heartsick, But he resolved to get Madame Malibran to sing his song in public Then he paused for a moment and clasped his hands, And running to the looking-glass before it he stands, Then he smoothed his yellow curls without delay, And from a tin box takes a scroll of paper worn and grey.
Then he gave one fond eager glance at his mother, Trying hard brave boy his grief to smother, As he gazed on the bed where she lay, But he resolved to see Madame Malibran without delay.
Then he kissed his mother while she slept, And stealthily from the house he crept, And direct to Madame Malibran's house he goes, Resolved to see her no matter who did him oppose.
And when he reached the door he knocked like a brave gallant And the door was answered by her lady servant, Then he told the servant Madame Malibran he wished to see And the servant said, oh yes, I'll tell her immediately.
Then away the servant goes quite confident, And told her a little boy wished to see her just one moment Oh! well, said Madame Malibran, with a smile, Fetch in the little boy he will divert me a while.
So Little Pierre was broght in with his hat under his arm And in his hand a scroll of paper, thinking it no harm, Then walked straight up to Madame Malibran without dread And said, dear lady my mother is sick and in want of bread.
And I have called to see if you would sing my little song, At someof your grand concerts, Ah! Say before long, Or perhaps you could sell it to a publisher for a small sum, Then I could buy food for my mother and with it would run.
Then Madame Malibran rose from her seat most costly and grand And took the scroll of paper from Pierre's hand And hummed his little song, to a plaintive air, Then said, your song is soul stirring I do declare.
Dear child did you compose the words she asked Pierre, Oh yes my dear lady just as you see, Well my dear boy I will sing your song to-night, And you shall have a seat near me on the right.
Then Pierre, said, Oh! lady I cannot leave my mother, But my dear boy, as for her you need not bother, So dear child don't be the least cast down, And in the meantime here is a crown.
And for your mother you can buy food and medicine, So run away and be at the concert to-night in time Then away he ran and bought many little necessary things And while doing so his little song he hums and sings.
Then home to his poor sick mother he quickly ran, And told her of his success with Madame Malibran, Then his mother cried, Oh! Pierre, you are a very good boy, And to hear of your success my heart is full of joy.
Dear mother, I am going to the concert hall to-night, To hear Madame Malibran, which will my heart delight, Oh! well said his mother, God speed you my little man, I hope you will be delighted to hear Madame Malibran.
So to the concert hall he goes, and found a seat there, And the lights and flashing of diamonds made him stare, And caused a joyous smile to play upon his face, For never had he been in so grand a place.
There the brave boy sat and Madame Malibran came at last And with his eyes rivetted on her he sared aghast, And to hear her sing, Oh! how he did long, And he wondered if the lady would really sing his song.
At last the great singer commenced his little song, And many a heart was moved and the plaudits loud and long And as she sang it Pierre clapped his hands for joy.
That he felt as if it were free from the world's annoy.
When the concert was over his heart felt as light as the air And as for money now he didn't seem to care, Since the great singer in Europe had sung his little song, But he hoped that dame fortune would smile on him ere long The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran And turning to his mother, she said your little boy Madame Will make a fortune for himself and you before long, Because I've been offered a large sum for his little song.
And Madame thank God you have such a gifted son, But dear Madame heavens will must be done, Then Pierre knelt and prayed that God would the lady bless For helping them in the time of their distress.
And the memory of Pierre's prayer made the singer do more good By visiting the poor and giving them clothing and food And Pierre lightened her last moments ere her soul fled away And he came to be one of the most talented composers of the day.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Wayfarers

 Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace; The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
Ah! the long road! and you so far away! Oh, I’ll remember! but … each crawling day Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.
…Do you think there’s a far border town, somewhere, The desert’s edge, last of the lands we know, Some gaunt eventual limit of our light, In which I’ll find you waiting; and we’ll go Together, hand in hand again, out there, Into the waste we know not, into the night?

Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

Khaja! grant one request, and only one,

Khaja! grant one request, and only one,
Wish me God-speed, and get your preaching done;
I walk aright, 'tis you who see awry;
Go! heal your purblind eyes, leave me alone.