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Best Famous Moving On Poems

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

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Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem


 This is the place.
Stand still, my steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook, But seen on either side.
Here runs the highway to the town; There the green lane descends, Through which I walked to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends! The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass; Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass.
Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day.
I saw the branches of the trees Bend down thy touch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass Rise up to kiss thy feet, "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!" Solemnly sang the village choir On that sweet Sabbath morn.
Through the closed blinds the golden sun Poured in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen By Jacob in his dream.
And ever and anon, the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon, Yet it seemed not so to me; For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, And still I thought of thee.
Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me; For in my heart I prayed with him, And still I thought of thee.
But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene With thee did disappear.
Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past, As when the sun, concealed Behind some cloud that near us hangs Shines on a distant field.

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

Moving On

 In this war we're always moving, 
Moving on; 
When we make a friend another friend has gone; 
Should a woman's kindly face 
Make us welcome for a space, 
Then it's boot and saddle, boys, we're 
Moving on.
In the hospitals they're moving, Moving on; They're here today, tomorrow they are gone; When the bravest and the best Of the boys you know "go west", Then you're choking down your tears and Moving on.
Written by Yves Bonnefoy | Create an image from this poem

The house where I was born (07)

 I remember, it was a morning, in summer,
The window was half-open, I drew near,
I could see my father at the end of the garden.
He was motionless, looking for something, I could not tell what, or where, beyond the world, His body was already bent over, but his gaze Was lifted toward the unaccomplished or the impossible.
He had put aside his pick and his spade, The air was fresh on that morning of the world, But even freshness can be impenetrable, and cruel The memory of the mornings of childhood.
Who was he, who had he been in the light, I did not know, I still do not.
But I also see him on the boulevard, Walking slowly, so much weariness Weighing down the way he now moved, He was going back to work, while I Was wandering about with some of my classmates At the beginning of an afternoon still free from time.
To this figure, seen from afar, moving on its way, I dedicate the words that cannot say what they would.
(In the dining room Of the Sunday afternoon, in summer, The shutters closed against the heat, The table cleared, he suggested Cards, since these are the only pictures In the childhood house to satisfy The needs of dream, but he leaves, And when he does, the child clumsily takes the cards, He puts the winning ones in the other’s hand, Then waits feverishly for the game to begin again, And for the one who was losing to win, and so triumphantly That he might see in this victory a sign, something To nourish some hope the child cannot know.
After this, two paths part, and one of them Vanishes, and almost immediately, forgetfulness Sets in, avid, relentless.
I have crossed out These words a hundred times, in verse, in prose, But I cannot Stop them from coming back.
Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

In Memoriam 82: I Wage Not Any Feud With Death

 I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

New Years Eve


The other night I had a dream, most clear 
And comforting, complete
In every line, a crystal sphere,
And full of intimate and secret cheer.
Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.
II The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow.
But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved, -- She of the blue-grey eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth, -- From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death.
I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence, Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance passionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.
My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good forever gone.
I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To the sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away.
The bell rang shrill and lonely, -- then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him, -- but ah! 't was Marguerite who came! There in the dear old dusky room she stood Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood.
"You did not ask for me," she said, "And so I will not let you take my hand; "But I must hear what secret talk you planned "With father.
Come, my friend, be good, "And tell me your affairs of state: "Why you have stayed away and made me wait "So long.
Sit down beside me here, -- "And, do you know, it seemed a year "Since we have talked together, -- why so late?" Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood.
She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends.
(Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best).
"Now come," she said, "To-night we will collaborate "Again; I'll put you to the test.
"Here's one I never found the way to do, -- "The simplest are the hardest ones, you know, -- "I give this song to you.
" And then she read: Mein kind, wir waren Kinder, Zei Kinder, jung und froh.
* * * * * * * * * * But all the while a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: "Is it herself, and is she truly here, "And was I dreaming when I heard "That she was dead last year? "Or was it true, and is she but a shade "Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, "Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade "When her sweet ghostly part is played "And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?" But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt.
"Will you not give me now your hand, "Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, "That by this token I may understand "You are the same true friend you were of old?" She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw new stars arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine.
Dear God, it was not cold But warm with vital heat! "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" Then I awoke; but strangely comforted, Although I knew again that she was dead.
III Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had.
But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house, -- man oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem


 I saw, as in a dream sublime,
The balance in the hand of Time.
O'er East and West its beam impended; And day, with all its hours of light, Was slowly sinking out of sight, While, opposite, the scale of night Silently with the stars ascended.
Like the astrologers of eld, In that bright vision I beheld Greater and deeper mysteries.
I saw, with its celestial keys, Its chords of air, its frets of fire, The Samian's great Aeolian lyre, Rising through all its sevenfold bars, From earth unto the fixed stars.
And through the dewy atmosphere, Not only could I see, but hear, Its wondrous and harmonious strings, In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, From Dian's circle light and near, Onward to vaster and wider rings.
Where, chanting through his beard of snows, Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, And down the sunless realms of space Reverberates the thunder of his bass.
Beneath the sky's triumphal arch This music sounded like a march, And with its chorus seemed to be Preluding some great tragedy.
Sirius was rising in the east; And, slow ascending one by one, The kindling constellations shone.
Begirt with many a blazing star, Stood the great giant Algebar, Orion, hunter of the beast! His sword hung gleaming by his side, And, on his arm, the lion's hide Scattered across the midnight air The golden radiance of its hair.
The moon was pallid, but not faint; And beautiful as some fair saint, Serenely moving on her way In hours of trial and dismay.
As if she heard the voice of God, Unharmed with naked feet she trod Upon the hot and burning stars, As on the glowing coals and bars, That were to prove her strength, and try Her holiness and her purity.
Thus moving on, with silent pace, And triumph in her sweet, pale face, She reached the station of Orion.
Aghast he stood in strange alarm! And suddenly from his outstretched arm Down fell the red skin of the lion Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat The forehead of the bull; but he Reeled as of yore beside the sea, When, blinded by Oenopion, He sought the blacksmith at his forge, And, climbing up the mountain gorge, Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.
Then, through the silence overhead, An angel with a trumpet said, "Forevermore, forevermore, The reign of violence is o'er!" And, like an instrument that flings Its music on another's strings, The trumpet of the angel cast Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, And on from sphere to sphere the words Re-echoed down the burning chords,-- "Forevermore, forevermore, The reign of violence is o'er!"
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem


Years upon years, as a course of clouds that thicken Thronging the ways of the wind that shifts and veers, Pass, and the flames of remembered fires requicken Years upon years.
Surely the thought in a man's heart hopes or fears Now that forgetfulness needs must here have stricken Anguish, and sweetened the sealed-up springs of tears.
Ah, but the strength of regrets that strain and sicken, Yearning for love that the veil of death endears, Slackens not wing for the wings of years that quicken - Years upon years.
Years upon years, and the flame of love's high altar Trembles and sinks, and the sense of listening ears Heeds not the sound that it heard of love's blithe psalter Years upon years.
Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears, Louder than dreams that assail and doubts that palter, Sorrow that slept and that wakes ere sundawn peers.
Wakes, that the heart may behold, and yet not falter, Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres Seen but of love, that endures though all things alter, Years upon years.
Years upon years, as a watch by night that passes, Pass, and the light of their eyes is fire that sears Slowly the hopes of the fruit that life amasses Years upon years.
Pale as the glimmer of stars on moorland meres Lighten the shadows reverberate from the glasses Held in their hands as they pass among their peers.
Lights that are shadows, as ghosts on graveyard grasses, Moving on paths that the moon of memory cheers, Shew but as mists over cloudy mountain passes Years upon years.
Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

To Contemplation

 Faint gleams the evening radiance thro' the sky,
The sober twilight dimly darkens round;
In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by,
And the slow vapour curls along the ground.
Now the pleas'd eye from yon lone cottage sees On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing play; The Red-breast on the blossom'd spray Warbles wild her latest lay, And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze.
Calm CONTEMPLATION,'tis thy favorite hour! Come fill my bosom, tranquillizing Power.
Meek Power! I view thee on the calmy shore When Ocean stills his waves to rest; Or when slow-moving on the surge's hoar Meet with deep hollow roar And whiten o'er his breast; For lo! the Moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams.
When the low gales of evening moan along, I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, And roam the pathless forest wilds among, Listening the mellow murmur of the trees Full-foliaged as they lift their arms on high And wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.
Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale The broken stream flows on in silver light, And I will linger where the gale O'er the bank of violets sighs, Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise; And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight, And watch the horn-eyed snail Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail, And mark where radiant thro' the night Moves in the grass-green hedge the glow-worms living light.
Thee meekest Power! I love to meet, As oft with even solitary pace The scatter'd Abbeys hallowed rounds I trace And listen to the echoings of my feet.
Or on the half demolished tomb, Whole warning texts anticipate my doom: Mark the clear orb of night Cast thro' the storying glass a faintly-varied light.
Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, Wandering beneath the sainted pile When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around The midnight shower with dreary sound.
But sweeter 'tis to wander wild By melancholy dreams beguil'd, While the summer moon's pale ray Faintly guides me on my way To the lone romantic glen Far from all the haunts of men, Where no noise of uproar rude Breaks the calm of solitude.
But soothing Silence sleeps in all Save the neighbouring waterfall, Whose hoarse waters falling near Load with hollow sounds the ear, And with down-dasht torrent white Gleam hoary thro' the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slow I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe, And muse upon the perish'd day When Hope would weave her visions gay, Ere FANCY chill'd by adverse fate Left sad REALITY my mate.
O CONTEMPLATION! when to Memory's eyes The visions of the long-past days arise, Thy holy power imparts the best relief, And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Fergus And The Druid

This whole day have I followed in the rocks, And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape, First as a raven on whose ancient wings Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed A weasel moving on from stone to stone, And now at last you wear a human shape, A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? Fergus.
This would I say, most wise of living souls: Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me When I gave judgment, and his words were wise, And what to me was burden without end, To him seemed easy, so I laid the crown Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.
What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings? Fergus.
A king and proud! and that is my despair.
I feast amid my people on the hill, And pace the woods, and drive my chariot-wheels In the white border of the murmuring sea; And still I feel the crown upon my head Druid.
What would you, Fergus? Fergus.
Be no more a king But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks And on these hands that may not lift the sword, This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman's loved me, no man sought my help.
A king is but a foolish labourer Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams; Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
I see my life go drifting like a river From change to change; I have been many things - A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill, An old slave grinding at a heavy quern, A king sitting upon a chair of gold - And all these things were wonderful and great; But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!
Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

In Memoriam A. H. H.: 82. I wage not any feud with death

 I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.