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Best Famous Jan Poems

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

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Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Last Lines

 Jan 7th

A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned. 

Through all this world of whelming mist
Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist
The Tempter till he flee.

Weary I am -- O give me strength
And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at length
And pity my complaint.

I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul,
To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole
Of my identity.

I hoped amid the brave and strong
My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng
With purpose pure and high.

But Thou hast fixed another part,
And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my breaking heart
When first the anguish fell.

For Thou hast taken my delight
And hope of life away,
And bid me watch the painful night
And wait the weary day.

The hope and the delight were Thine;
I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine
Too little thanks, I own.

Shall I with joy Thy blessings share
And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear
And cast away the cross?

These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost
If I can fix my heart on Thee.

Weak and weary though I lie,
Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eyes
And strive and labour not in vain,

That inward strife against the sins
That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where first begins
Each ill that would corruption bring,

That secret labour to sustain
With humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain
And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart
Whatever be my written fate,
Whether thus early to depart
Or yet awhile to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life
More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.

Should Death be standing at the gate
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whate'er my future fate
So let me serve Thee now.

Finished. Jan. 28, 1849.


Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

The Proud Lady

 When Stiivoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,
Its ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry. 

A lady dwelt in that rich town,
The fairest in all the land;
She walked abroad in a velvet gown,
With many rings on her hand. 

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold,
Her lips as coral red,
Her roving eyes were blue and bold,
And her heart with pride was fed. 

For she was proud of her father's ships,
As she watched them gayly pass;
And pride looked out of her eyes and lips
When she saw herself in the glass. 

"Now come," she said to the captains ten,
Who were ready to put to sea,
"Ye are all my men and my father's men,
And what will ye do for me?" 

"Go north and south, go east and west,
And get me gifts," she said.
"And he who bringeth me home the best,
With that man will I wed." 

So they all fared forth, and sought with care
In many a famous mart,
For satins and silks and jewels rare,
To win that lady's heart. 

She looked at them all with never a thought,
And careless put them by;
"I am not fain of the things ye brought,
Enough of these have I." 

The last that came was the head of the fleet,
His name was Jan Borel;
He bent his knee at the lady's feet,--
In truth he loved her well. 

"I've brought thee home the best i' the world,
A shipful of Danzig corn!"
She stared at him long; her red lips curled,
Her blue eyes filled with scorn. 

"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl,
A loon thou art," she said.
"Am I a starving beggar girl?
Shall I ever lack for bread?" 

"Go empty all thy sacks of grain
Into the nearest sea,
And never show thy face again
To make a mock of me." 

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail,
And out to sea he bore;
He passed the Helder in a gale
And came again no more. 

But the grains of corn went drifting down
Like devil-scattered seed,
To sow the harbor of the town
With a wicked growth of weed. 

The roots were thick and the silt and sand
Were gathered day by day,
Till not a furlong out from land
A shoal had barred the way. 

Then Stavoren town saw evil years,
No ships could out or in,
The boats lay rotting at the piers,
And the mouldy grain in the bin. 

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn,
The town in ruin stood,
The lady's velvet gown was torn,
Her rings were sold for food. 

Her father had perished long ago,
But the lady held her pride,
She walked with a scornful step and slow,
Till at last in her rags she died. 

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town,
When the midnight moon shines free,
woman walks in a velvet gown
And scatters corn in the sea.
Written by Anne Bradstreet | Create an image from this poem

Upon My Dear and Loving Husband his Going into England Jan. 16

 O thou Most High who rulest all 
And hear'st the prayers of thine, 
O hearken, Lord, unto my suit 
And my petition sign.

Into Thy everlasting arms Of mercy 
I commend Thy servant, Lord. 
Keep and preserve My husband, 
my dear friend.

At Thy command, O Lord, he went, 
Nor nought could keep him back. 
Then let Thy promise joy his heart, 
O help and be not slack.

Uphold my heart in Thee, O God. 
Thou art my strength and stay, 
Thou see'st how weak and frail I am, 
Hide not Thy face away.

I in obedience to Thy will 
Thou knowest did submit. 
It was my duty so to do; 
O Lord, accept of it.

Unthankfulness for mercies past 
Impute Thou not to me. 
O Lord, Thou know'st my weak desire 
Was to sing praise to Thee.

Lord, be Thou pilot to the ship 
And send them prosperous gales. 
In storms and sickness, Lord, preserve. 
Thy goodness never fails.

Unto Thy work he hath in hand 
Lord, grant Thou good success 
And favour in their eyes to whom 
He shall make his address.

Remember, Lord, Thy folk whom Thou 
To wilderness hast brought; 
Let not Thine own inheritance 
Be sold away for nought.

But tokens of Thy favour give, 
With joy send back my dear 
That I and all Thy servants may 
Rejoice with heavenly cheer.

Lord, let my eyes see once again 
Him whom Thou gavest me 
That we together may sing praise 
Forever unto Thee.

And the remainder of our days 
Shall consecrated be 
With an engaged heart to sing 
All praises unto Thee.
Written by Li Po | Create an image from this poem

For Meng Hao-Jan

 I love Master Meng.
Free as a flowing breeze,
He is famous
Throughout the world.

In rosy youth, he cast away
Official cap and carriage.
Now, a white-haired elder, he reclines
Amid pines and cloud.

Drunk beneath the moon,
He often attains sagehood.
Lost among the flowers,
He serves no lord.

How can I aspire
to such a high mountain?
Here below, to his clear fragrance,
I bow.
Written by Li Po | Create an image from this poem

Farewell to Meng Hao-jan

 I took leave of you, old friend, at the 
Yellow Crane Pavilion; 
In the mist and bloom of March, you went 
down to Yang-chou: 
A lonely sail, distant shades, extinguished by blue-- 
There, at the horizon, where river meets sky.


Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

I Hate This City

   I hate this City, seated on the Plain,
     The clang and clamour of the hot Bazar,
   Knowing, amid the pauses of my pain,
     This month the Almonds bloom in Kandahar.

   The Almond-trees, that sheltered my Delight,
     Screening my happiness as evening fell.
   It was well worth—that most Enchanted Night—
     This life in torment, and the next in Hell!

   People are kind to me; one More than Kind,
     Her lashes lie like fans upon her cheek,
   But kindness is a burden on my mind,
     And it is weariness to hear her speak.

   For though that Kaffir's bullet holds me here,
     My thoughts are ever free, and wander far,
   To where the Lilac Hills rise, soft and clear,
     Beyond the Almond Groves of Kandahar.

   He followed me to Sibi, to the Fair,
     The Horse-fair, where he shot me weeks ago,
   But since they fettered him I have no care
     That my returning steps to health are slow.

   They will not loose him till they know my fate,
     And I rest here till I am strong to slay,
   Meantime, my Heart's Delight may safely wait
     Among the Almond blossoms, sweet as they.

   That cursed Kaffir! Well, he won by day,
     But I won, what I so desired, by night,
   My arms held what his lack till Judgment Day!
     Also, the game is not yet over—quite!

   Wait, Amir Ali, wait till I come forth
     To kill, before the Almond-trees are green,
   To raze thy very Memory from the North,
     So that thou art not, and thou hast not been!

   Aha! Friend Amir Ali! it is Duty
     To rid the World from Shiah dogs like thee,
   They are but ill-placed moles on Islam's beauty,
     Such as the Faithful cannot calmly see!

   Also thy bullet hurts me not a little,
     Thy Shiah blood might serve to salve the ill.
   Maybe some Afghan Promises are brittle;
     Never a Promise to oneself, to kill!

   Now I grow stronger, I have days of leisure
     To shape my coming Vengeance as I lie,
   And, undisturbed by call of War or Pleasure,
     Can dream of many ways a man may die.

   I shall not torture thee, thy friends might rally,
     Some Fate assist thee and prove false to me;
   Oh! shouldst thou now escape me, Amir Ali,
     This would torment me through Eternity!

   Aye, Shuffa-Jan, I will be quiet indeed,
     Give here the Hakim's powder if thou wilt,
   And thou mayst sit, for I perceive thy need,
     And rest thy soft-haired head upon my quilt.

   Thy gentle love will not disturb a mind
     That loves and hates beneath a fiercer Star.
   Also, thou know'st, my Heart is left behind,
     Among the Almond-trees of Kandahar!
Written by Wang Wei | Create an image from this poem

Lament For Meng Hao-Jan

 I can never see my old friend again—
The river Han still streams to the east
I might question some old man of his place—
River and hills—empty is Tsaichou.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Breton Wife

 A Wintertide we had been wed
When Jan went off to sea;
And now the laurel rose is red
And I wait on the quay.
His berthing boat I watch with dread,
For where, oh where is he?

"Weep not, brave lass," the Skipper said;
"Return to you he will;
In hospital he lies abed
In Rio in Brazil;
But though I know he is not dead,
I do not know his ill."

The Seaman's Hospital I wrote,
And soon there came reply.
The nurse's very words I quote:
"Your husband will not die;
But you must wait a weary boat -
I cannot tell you why."

The months of sun went snailing by.
I wrote by every mail,
Yet ever came the same reply:
"Your patience must not fail.
But though your good lad will not die,
We cannot tell his ail."

 * * * * * * * * *

Ten months have gone - he's back again,
But aged by years a score,
And tells me with a look of pain
He'll never voyage more;
And at the tide, with longing vain,
He stares from out the door.

And in his sleep he turns from me
And moans with bitter blame
Of Spanish jades beyond the sea
Who wrought him evil shame,
So ever in him bleak will be
The Ill That Has No Name.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Jan Kubelik

 YOUR bow swept over a string, and a long low note
quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
learning to suck milk.)

Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering
and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon
in the hills with their lovers.)

Book: Reflection on the Important Things