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Best Famous Idolatry Poems

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

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Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

The Funeral

WHOEVER comes to shroud me do not harm 
Nor question much 
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; 
The mystery the sign you must not touch  
For 'tis my outward soul 5 
Viceroy to that which unto heav'n being gone  
Will leave this to control 
And keep these limbs her provinces from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part 10 Can tie those parts and make me one of all; Those hairs which upward grew and strength and art Have from a better brain Can better do 't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain 15 As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd to die.
Whate'er she meant by 't bury it with me For since I am Love's martyr it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came.
20 As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do So 'tis some bravery That since you would have none of me I bury some of you.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem


 A face seen passing in a crowded street,
A voice heard singing music, large and free;
And from that moment life is changed, and we
Become of more heroic temper, meet
To freely ask and give, a man complete
Radiant because of faith, we dare to be
What Nature meant us.
Brave idolatry Which can conceive a hero! No deceit, No knowledge taught by unrelenting years, Can quench this fierce, untamable desire.
We know that what we long for once achieved Will cease to satisfy.
Be still our fears; If what we worship fail us, still the fire Burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Holy Sonnet XIII: What If This Present Were The Worlds Last Night?

 What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty, of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour: so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned, This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry

 Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my belovèd as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
"Fair, kind, and true" is all my argument, "Fair, kind, and true" varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
Which three till now never kept seat in one.
Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

To my Muse


Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhorr'd
That hast betray'd me to a worthless lord ;
Made me commit most fierce idolatry
To a great image through thy luxury :
Be thy next master's more unlucky muse,
And, as thou'st mine, his hours and youth abuse,
Get him the time's long grudge, the court's ill will ;
And reconcil'd, keep him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends ; and, which is worse,
Almost all ways to any better course.
With me thou leav'st an happier muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome poverty :
She shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me : stay — Whoe'er is raised,
For worth he has not, he is tax'd not praised.

Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Holy Sonnet III: O Might Those Sighs And Tears Return Again

 O might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!
That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;
'Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.
Th' hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joys for relief Of comming ills.
To (poor) me is allowed No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Psalm 81

1,8-16 S.
The warnings of God to his people.
Sing to the Lord aloud, And make a joyful noise; God is our strength, our Savior God; Let Isr'el hear his voice.
"From vile idolatry Preserve my worship clean; I am the Lord, who set thee free From slavery and sin.
"Stretch thy desires abroad, And I'll supply them well: But if ye will refuse your God, If Isr'el will rebel; "I'll leave them," saith the Lord, "To their own lusts a prey, And let them run the dang'rous road, 'Tis their own chosen way.
"Yet, O! that all my saints Would hearken to my voice! Soon I would ease their sore complaints, And bid their hearts rejoice.
"While I destroy their foes, I'd richly feed my flock; And they should taste the stream that flows From their eternal rock.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem




THE TEMPLE A way enchaced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is.
Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides.
So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery.
Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical.
If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted.
Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is.
Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS.
Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;-- Neither those other saint-ships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite; Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar.
First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, 'Favour your tongues, who enter here.
'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.
' A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!' Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put; A little brush of squirrels' hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family.
Near to the altar stands the priest, There offering up the holy-grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do't him) reverence.
The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall.
Whose linen-drapery is a thin, Sub|ile, and ductile codling's skin; Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked.
The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.
Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings.
Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read: And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Ay, and their book of canons too.
And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And if that Fairy knight not lies They have their book of homilies; And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline.
The bason stands the board upon To take the free-oblation; A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold; Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any.
Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a tall small bent Burns for the altar's ornament.
For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery.
They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister.
Their ush'ring vergers here likewise, Their canons and their chaunteries; Of cloister-monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:-- And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy; And since the last is dead, there's hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences, Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax- Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little.
Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Beside their fumigations.
Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it.
Next then, upon the chanter's side An apple's-core is hung up dried, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song.
The saint, to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss, And, humbly, chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings.
When, after these, he's paid his vows, He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense; And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the Feast that's now provided.
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

Loves Prayer

 Beloved, this the heart I offer thee 
Is purified from old idolatry, 
From outworn hopes, and from the lingering stain 
Of passion's dregs, by penitential pain.
Take thou it, then, and fill it up for me With thine unstinted love, and it shall be An earthy chalice that is made divine By its red draught of sacramental wine.
Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem

Quia Multum Amavi

 Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.
Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, Through all those summer days of joy and rain, I had not now been sorrow's heritor, Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.
Yet, though remorse, youth's white-faced seneschal, Tread on my heels with all his retinue, I am most glad I loved thee - think of all The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!