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Best Famous Ministry Poems

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

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Written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge | Create an image from this poem

Frost at Midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind.
The owlet's cry Came loud---and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
`Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness.
Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang >From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shall learn far other lore, And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Legend of Mirth

 The Four Archangels, so the legends tell,
Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Azrael,
Being first of those to whom the Power was shown
Stood first of all the Host before The Throne,
And, when the Charges were allotted, burst
Tumultuous-winged from out the assembly first.
Zeal was their spur that bade them strictly heed Their own high judgment on their lightest deed.
Zeal was their spur that, when relief was given, Urged them unwearied to new toils in Heaven; For Honour's sake perfecting every task Beyond what e 'en Perfection's self could ask.
And Allah, Who created Zeal and Pride, Knows how the twain are perilous-near allied.
It chanced on one of Heaven's long-lighted days, The Four and all the Host being gone their ways Each to his Charge, the shining Courts were void Save for one Seraph whom no charge employed, With folden wings and slumber-threatened brow, To whom The Word: "Beloved, what dost thou?" "By the Permission," came the answer soft, Little I do nor do that little oft.
As is The Will in Heaven so on Earth Where by The Will I strive to make men mirth" He ceased and sped, hearing The Word once more: " Beloved, go thy way and greet the Four.
" Systems and Universes overpast, The Seraph came upon the Four, at last, Guiding and guarding with devoted mind The tedious generations of mankind Who lent at most unwilling ear and eye When they could not escape the ministry.
Yet, patient, faithful, firm, persistent, just Toward all that gross, indifferent, facile dust, The Archangels laboured to discharge their trust By precept and example, prayer and law, Advice, reproof, and rule, but, labouring, saw Each in his fellows' countenance confessed, The Doubt that sickens: "Have I done my best?" Even as they sighed and turned to toil anew, The Seraph hailed them with observance due; And, after some fit talk of higher things, Touched tentative on mundane happenings.
This they permitting, he, emboldened thus, Prolused of humankind promiscuous, And, since the large contention less avails Than instances observed, he told them tales-- Tales of the shop, the bed, the court, the street, Intimate, elemental, indiscreet: Occasions where Confusion smiting swift Piles jest on jest as snow-slides pile the drift Whence, one by one, beneath derisive skies, The victims' bare, bewildered heads arise-- Tales of the passing of the spirit, graced With humour blinding as the doom it faced-- Stark tales of ribaldy that broke aside To tears, by laughter swallowed ere they dried- Tales to which neither grace nor gain accrue, But Only (Allah be exalted!) true, And only, as the Seraph showed that night, Delighting to the limits of delight.
These he rehearsed with artful pause and halt, And such pretence of memory at fault, That soon the Four--so well the bait was thrown-- Came to his aid with memories of their own-- Matters dismissed long since as small or vain, Whereof the high significance had lain Hid, till the ungirt glosses made it plain.
Then, as enlightenment came broad and fast, Each marvelled at his own oblivious past Until--the Gates of Laughter opened wide-- The Four, with that bland Seraph at their side, While they recalled, compared, and amplified, In utter mirth forgot both Zeal and Pride! High over Heaven the lamps of midnight burned Ere, weak with merriment, the Four returned, Not in that order they were wont to keep-- Pinion to pinion answering, sweep for sweep, In awful diapason heard afar-- But shoutingly adrift 'twixt star and star; Reeling a planet's orbit left or right As laughter took them in the abysmal Night; Or, by the point of some remembered jest, Winged and brought helpless down through gulfs unguessed, Where the blank worlds that gather to the birth Leaped in the Womb of Darkness at their mirth, And e'en Gehenna's bondsmen understood.
They were not damned from human brotherhood .
Not first nor last of Heaven's high Host, the Four That night took place beneath The Throne once more.
0 lovelier than their morning majesty, The understanding light behind the eye! 0 more compelling than their old command, The new-learned friendly gesture of the hand! 0 sweeter than their zealous fellowship, The wise half-smile that passed from lip to lip! 0 well and roundly, when Command was given, They told their tale against themselves to Heaven, And in the silence, waiting on The Word, Received the Peace and Pardon of The Lord!
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Of A Ministry Pitiful Angry Mean

 Of a Ministry pitiful, angry, mean,
A gallant commander the victim is seen.
For promptitude, vigour, success, does he stand Condemn'd to receive a severe reprimand! To his foes I could wish a resemblance in fate: That they, too, may suffer themselves, soon or late, The injustice they warrent.
But vain is my spite They cannot so suffer who never do right.
Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

The Guardian-Angel

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, ---And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? IV.
If this was ever granted, I would rest My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared? VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently,---with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach.
We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content ---My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)--- VIII.
And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong--- I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here.
Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
Written by C S Lewis | Create an image from this poem

The Condemned

 There is a wildness still in England that will not feed 
In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand,
Easy to kill, not easy to tame.
It will never breed In a zoo for the public pleasure.
It will not be planned.
Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make - We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake.
A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell.
To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps, And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.

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

My Legacy

 My friend has gone away from me 
From shadow into perfect light, 
But leaving a sweet legacy.
My heart shall hold it long in fee­ A grand ideal, calm and bright, A song of hope for ministry, A faith of unstained purity, A thought of beauty for delight­ These did my friend bequeath to me; And, more than even these can be, The worthy pattern of a white, Unmarred life lived most graciously.
Dear comrade, loyal thanks to thee Who now hath fared beyond my sight, My friend has gone away from me, But leaving a sweet legacy.
Written by Thomas Blackburn | Create an image from this poem

An Invitation

 Holding with shaking hands a letter from some
Official – high up he says in the Ministry,
I note that I am invited to Birmingham,
There pedagogues to address for a decent fee.
'We like to meet,' he goes on, 'men eminent In the field of letters each year,' and that's well put, Though I find his words not wholly relevant To this red-eyed fellow whose mouth tastes rank as soot.
No doubt what he's thinking of is poetry When 'Thomas Blackburn' he writes, and not the fuss A life makes when it has no symmetry, Though the term 'a poet' being mainly posthumous, Since I'm no stiff, is inappropriate.
What I can confirm is the struggle that never lets up Between the horses of Plato beneath my yoke, One after Light, and for Hell not giving a rap, The other only keen on infernal smoke.
And poems.
? From time to time they commemorate Some particularly dirty battle between these two; I put the letter down – what's the right note? 'Dear Sir,' I type, 'how nice to speak to you!'
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Amos Sibley

 Not character, not fortitude, not patience
Were mine, the which the village thought I had
In bearing with my wife, while preaching on,
Doing the work God chose for me.
I loathed her as a termagant, as a wanton.
I knew of her adulteries, every one.
But even so, if I divorced the woman I must forsake the ministry.
Therefore to do God's work and have it crop, I bore with her! So lied I to myself! So lied I to Spoon River! Yet I tried lecturing, ran for the legislature, Canvassed for books, with just the thought in mind: If I make money thus, I will divorce her.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 ("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.") 
 {Bk. I. v., December, 1822.} 

 The golden gates were opened wide that day, 
 All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play 
 Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; 
 And the elect beheld, crowd immortal, 
 A young soul, led up by young angels bright, 
 Stand in the starry portal. 
 A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, 
 In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate, 
 His golden hair hung all dishevelled down, 
 On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story, 
 And angels twined him with the innocent's crown, 
 The martyr's palm of glory. 
 The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near, 
 Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear, 
 God hath prepared a glory for thy brow, 
 Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing 
 His praises ever on untired string, 
 Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; 
 Do homage—"'Tis a king." 
 And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven: 
 "I am an orphan and no king at all; 
 I was a weary prisoner yestereven, 
 My father's murderers fed my soul with gall. 
 Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems. 
 Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, 
 But then I saw my mother in my dreams, 
 Say, shall I find her here?" 
 The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come, 
 Out of an impure world He calls thee home, 
 From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves 
 Over the broken cross her impure wings, 
 And regicides go down among the graves, 
 Scenting the blood of kings." 
 He cries: "Then have I finished my long life? 
 Are all its evils over, all its strife, 
 And will no cruel jailer evermore 
 Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er? 
 Is it no dream that nothing else remains 
 Of all my torments but this answered cry, 
 And have I had, O God, amid my chains, 
 The happiness to die? 
 "For none can tell what cause I had to pine, 
 What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; 
 And when I wept there was no mother near 
 To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. 
 Poor victim of a punishment unending, 
 Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, 
 So young, I could not tell what crime impending 
 Had stained me from my birth. 
 "Yet far off in dim memory it seems, 
 With all its horror mingled happy dreams, 
 Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, 
 And a glad people watched beside my bed. 
 One day into mysterious darkness thrown, 
 I saw the promise of my future close; 
 I was a little child, left all alone, 
 Alas! and I had foes. 
 "They cast me living in a dreary tomb, 
 Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, 
 Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep 
 Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. 
 'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there. 
 Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, 
 Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, 
 It is for them I call." 
 The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold, 
 Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, 
 Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, 
 And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, 
 Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears 
 Are dropping o'er her restless little one, 
 Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, 
 Shalt kindle some cold sun." 
 Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, 
 Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, 
 In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, 
 Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said: 
 "O king, I kept thee far from human state, 
 Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, 
 O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, 
 The slavery of kings thou hast not known, 
 What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, 
 And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, 
 No earthly diadem has ever set 
 A stain upon thy face. 
 "Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, 
 But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, 
 And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. 
 Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; 
 Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, 
 His sceptre was a reed." 
 Dublin University Magazine. 


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad of That P.N

 The shades of night had fallen at last, 
When through the house a shadow passed, 
That once had been the Genial Dan, 
But now become a desperate man, 
At question time he waited near, 
And on the Premier's startled ear 
A voice fell like half a brick -- 
"Did ye, or did ye not, pay Crick 
Did ye?" 
By land and sea the Premier sped, 
But found his foe where'er he fled, 
The sailors swore -- with whitened lip -- 
That Neptune swam behind the ship: 
When to the stern the Premier ran, 
Behold, 'twas no one else but Dan, 
And through the roaring of the gale 
That clarion voice took up the tale, 
"Ahot there! Answer, straight and slick! 
Did not the Ministry pay Crick 
Did they?" 

In railway trains he sought retreat, 
But soon, from underneath the seat, 
With blazing eye and bristling beard, 
His ancient enemy appeared, 
And like a boiling torrent ran 
The accents of the angry Dan -- 
"Tell me, John See, and tell me quick 
Did not ye pay your shares to Crick 
Did ye?"