Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Offerings Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Offerings poems, articles about Offerings poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Offerings poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

Tamerlane

 Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme-
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope- that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope- Oh God! I can-
Its fount is holier- more divine-
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again-
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness- a knell.

I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar- this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven- that dew- it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!- was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd- and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush-
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayer-
The hum of suitors- and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature- be it so:
But father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then- in my boyhood- when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words- alas!- to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are- shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters- with their meaning- melt
To fantasies- with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!
Love- as in infancy was mine-
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright-
Pure- as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather-
And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven- but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is- the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears-
There was no need to speak the rest-
No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone-
I had no being- but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the sea-
Its joy- its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure- the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by night-

And dimmer nothings which were real-
(Shadows- and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and- a name- a name!
Two separate- yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious- have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lot-
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills-
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly-
A mingled feeling with my own-
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crown-
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me-
But that, among the rabble- men,
Lion ambition is chained down-
And crouches to a keeper's hand-
Not so in deserts where the grand-
The wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne-
And who her sovereign? Timour- he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth-
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly-
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one-
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown-
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.

I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known-
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-
I know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity-
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path-
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly-
The lightning of his eagle eye-
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?


Written by Syl Cheney-Coker | Create an image from this poem

Blood Money

Along the route of this river,
with a little luck, we shall chance upon
our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile
reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra
growing fiery mornings from our discontent
Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,
not honor pristine and profound.
In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips
those cups filled with ethnic offerings
that saps the blood of all human good.
Having no other country to call my own
except for this one full of pine needles
on which we nail our children's lives,
I have put off examining this skull,
savage harvest, the swollen earth,
until that day when, all God's children,
we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.
And remorse not being theirs to feel,
I offer an inventory of abuse by these men,
with this wretched earth on my palms,
so as to remind them of our stilted growth
the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer
the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.
Written by Rabindranath Tagore | Create an image from this poem

Endless Time

 Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. 
There is none to count thy minutes. 

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. 
Thou knowest how to wait. 

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. 

We have no time to lose, 
and having no time we must scramble for a chance. 
We are too poor to be late. 

And thus it is that time goes by 
while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, 
and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. 

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; 
but I find that yet there is time.
Written by Charlotte Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Pilates Wifes Dream

 I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­
The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. 

It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; 
How far is night advanced, and when will day
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,
And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? 
Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,
Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! 

I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, 
Because my own is broken, were unjust; 

They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; 
Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, 
Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. 

Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise 
My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; 
I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: 
These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, 
Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear 
Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. 

All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, 
Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; 
Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast 
On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. 
I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; 
A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. 

Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring 
From street to street, not loud, but through the night 
Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing 
Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light 
Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, 
It stands up like a column, straight and high. 

I see it all­I know the dusky sign­
A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear 

While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine 
Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, 
Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; 
And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. 

Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; 
Surely some oracle has been with me,
The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, 
To warn an unjust judge of destiny: 
I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, 
Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. 

I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove 
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway 
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, 
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, 
That might stir up reprisal in the dead. 

Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; 
Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, 
In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads 
A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; 
A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge 
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. 

How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ?
I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; 

I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; 
Because, while life for me was bright and young, 
He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­
He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. 


And at this hour­although I be his wife­ 
He has no more of tenderness from me 
Than any other wretch of guilty life; 
Less, for I know his household privacy­ 
I see him as he is­without a screen; 
And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! 

Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ 
Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? 
And have I not his red salute withstood ? 
Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee 
In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, 
Mingling their very offerings with their gore. 

Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, 
Upon his lips some false, endearing word, 
And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while,
His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ 
And I, to see a man cause men such woe, 
Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. 

And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought
Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ 

To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; 
By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. 
Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, 
And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! 

Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, 
Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; 
Could he this night's appalling vision hear, 
This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, 
Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, 
And make even terror to their malice quail. 

Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause.
What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear,
Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause
Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear,
Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­
Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. 

I suffered many things, I heard foretold 
A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, 
In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold 
Built up a solitude of trackless snows, 
There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, 
There he lived famished­there methought he died; 

But not of hunger, nor by malady;
I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; 

I said I had no tears for such as he, 
And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; 
I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, 
I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. 

More I recall not, yet the vision spread 
Into a world remote, an age to come­ 
And still the illumined name of Jesus shed 
A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ 
And still I saw that sign, which now I see, 
That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. 

What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, 
His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, 
Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! 
How straight and stainless is his life's career ! 
The ray of Deity that rests on him, 
In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. 

The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite
Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;
The searching soul demands a purer light 
To guide it on its upward, onward way;
Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns 
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. 

Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled,
Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man,
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,
Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan 

And sever from the wheat; but will his faith 
Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? 

* * * * * 

I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope 
Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; 
Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope 
Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, 
Which I so wished for when shut in by night; 
Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! 

Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! 
Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! 
Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, 
The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. 
Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, 
How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! 

This day, time travails with a mighty birth, 
This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, 
Ere night descends, I shall more surely know 
What guide to follow, in what path to go; 
I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, 
The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Morning Song Of Senlin

 from Senlin: A Biography 


It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, 
I arise, I face the sunrise, 
And do the things my fathers learned to do. 
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops 
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, 
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet 
Stand before a glass and tie my tie. 
Vine leaves tap my window, 
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree 
Repeating three clear tones. 
It is morning. I stand by the mirror 
And tie my tie once more. 
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight 
Crash on a white sand shore. 
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: 
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air 
And bathes in a flame of space. 
There are houses hanging above the stars 
And stars hung under a sea. . . 
And a sun far off in a shell of silence 
Dapples my walls for me. . . 
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
Should I not pause in the light to remember God? 
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, 
He is immense and lonely as a cloud. 
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror 
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair. 
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence! 
I will think of you as I descend the stair. 
Vine leaves tap my window, 
The snail-track shines on the stones, 
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree 
Repeating two clear tones. 
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, 
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. 
The walls are about me still as in the evening, 
I am the same, and the same name still I keep. 
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, 
The stars pale silently in a coral sky. 
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, 
Unconcerned, I tie my tie. 
There are horses neighing on far-off hills 
Tossing their long white manes, 
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, 
Their shoulders black with rains. . . 
It is morning. I stand by the mirror 
And suprise my soul once more; 
The blue air rushes above my ceiling, 
There are suns beneath my floor. . . 
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness 
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, 
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, 
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. 
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, 
And a god among the stars; and I will go 
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak 
And humming a tune I know. . . 
Vine-leaves tap at the window, 
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree 
Repeating three clear tones.


Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Heroic Stanzas

 Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His 
Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver,
Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc.
(Oliver Cromwell)

Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 


1

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, 
Who would before have borne him to the sky, 
Like eager Romans ere all rites were past 
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 

2

Though our best notes are treason to his fame 
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice; 
Since Heav'n, what praise we offer to his name, 
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice; 

3

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, 
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown 
Add not to his immortal memory, 
But do an act of friendship to their own; 

4

Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too 
Such monuments as we can build to raise, 
Lest all the world prevent what we should do 
And claim a title in him by their praise. 

5

How shall I then begin, or where conclude 
To draw a fame so truly circular? 
For in a round what order can be shew'd, 
Where all the parts so equal perfect are? 

6

His grandeur he deriv'd from Heav'n alone, 
For he was great ere fortune made him so, 
And wars like mists that rise against the sun 
Made him but greater seem, not greater grown. 

7

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn, 
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring. 
Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born 
With the too early thoughts of being king. 

8

Fortune (that easy mistress of the young 
But to her ancient servant coy and hard) 
Him at that age her favorites rank'd among 
When she her best-lov'd Pompey did discard. 

9

He, private, mark'd the faults of others' sway, 
And set as sea-marks for himself to shun, 
Not like rash monarchs who their youth betray 
By acts their age too late would wish undone. 

10

And yet dominion was not his design; 
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, 
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, 
Rewards that less to him than us were given. 

11

Our former chiefs like sticklers of the war 
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise, 
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor, 
And did not strike to hurt but make a noise. 

12

War, our consumption, was their gainfull trade; 
We inward bled whilst they prolong'd our pain; 
He fought to end our fighting and assay'd 
To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein. 

13

Swift and resistless through the land he pass'd 
Like that bold Greek who did the east subdue, 
And made to battles such heroic haste 
As if on wings of victory he flew. 

14

He fought secure of fortune as of fame, 
Till by new maps the island might be shown, 
Of conquests which he strew'd where'er he came 
Thick as a galaxy with stars is sown. 

15

His palms, though under weights they did not stand, 
Still thriv'd; no winter could his laurels fade; 
Heav'n in his portrait shew'd a workman's hand 
And drew it perfect yet without a shade. 

16

Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, 
Which war had banish'd and did now restore; 
Bologna's walls thus mounted in the air 
To seat themselves more surely than before. 

17

Her safety rescu'd Ireland to him owes, 
And treacherous Scotland, to no int'rest true, 
Yet bless'd that fate which did his arms dispose 
Her land to civilize as to subdue. 

18

Nor was he like those stars which only shine 
When to pale mariners they storms portend; 
He had his calmer influence, and his mien 
Did love and majesty together blend. 

19

'Tis true, his count'nance did imprint an awe, 
And naturally all souls to his did bow, 
As wands of divination downward draw 
And points to beds where sov'reign gold doth grow. 

20

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove, 
He Mars depos'd and arms to gowns made yield; 
Successful councils did him soon approve 
As fit for close intrigues as open field. 

21

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a peace, 
Our once bold rival in the British main, 
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease 
And buy our friendship with her idol, gain. 

22

Fame of th' asserted sea through Europe blown 
Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; 
Each knew that side must conquer he would own, 
And for him fiercely as for empire strove. 

23

No sooner was the Frenchman's cause embrac'd 
Than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh'd; 
His fortune turn'd the scale where it was cast, 
Though Indian mines were in the other laid. 

24

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his right, 
For though some meaner artist's skill were shown 
In mingling colours, or in placing light, 
Yet still the fair designment was his own. 

25

For from all tempers he could service draw; 
The worth of each with its alloy he knew, 
And as the confidant of Nature saw 
How she complexions did divide and brew. 

26

Or he their single virtues did survey 
By intuition in his own large breast, 
Where all the rich ideas of them lay, 
That were the rule and measure to the rest. 

27

When such heroic virtue Heav'n sets out, 
The stars like Commons sullenly obey, 
Because it drains them when it comes about, 
And therefore is a tax they seldom pay. 

28

From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, 
Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, 
Since their commencement to his arms they owe, 
If springs as high as fountains may ascend. 

29

He made us freemen of the continent 
Whom Nature did like captives treat before, 
To nobler preys the English lion sent, 
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar. 

30

That old unquestion'd pirate of the land, 
Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heard, 
And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand, 
Although an Alexander were here guard. 

31

By his command we boldly cross'd the line 
And bravely fought where southern stars arise, 
We trac'd the far-fetch'd gold unto the mine 
And that which brib'd our fathers made our prize. 

32

Such was our prince; yet own'd a soul above 
The highest acts it could produce to show: 
Thus poor mechanic arts in public move 
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go. 

33

Nor di'd he when his ebbing fame went less, 
But when fresh laurels courted him to live; 
He seem'd but to prevent some new success, 
As if above what triumphs earth could give. 

34

His latest victories still thickest came, 
As near the center motion does increase, 
Till he, press'd down by his own weighty name, 
Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease. 

35

But first the ocean as a tribute sent 
That giant prince of all her watery herd, 
And th' isle when her protecting genius went 
Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferr'd. 

36

No civil broils have since his death arose, 
But faction now by habit does obey, 
And wars have that respect for his repose, 
As winds for halycons when they breed at sea. 

37

His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; 
His name a great example stands to show 
How strangely high endeavours may be blest, 
Where piety and valour jointly go.
Written by Susan Rich | Create an image from this poem

A Poem for Will Baking

 Each night he stands before

the kitchen island, begins again

from scratch: chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg,

he beats, he folds;

keeps faith in what happens

when you combine known quantities,

bake twelve minutes at a certain heat.

The other rabbis, the scholars,

teenagers idling by the beach,

they receive his offerings,

in the early hours, share his grief.

It’s enough now, they say.

Each day more baked goods to friends,

and friends of friends, even

the neighborhood cops. He can’t stop,

holds on to the rhythmic opening

and closing of the oven,

the timer’s expectant ring.

I was just baking, he says if

someone comes by. Again and again,

evenings winter into spring,

he creates the most fragile

of confections: madelines

and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps

and blue florentines;

each crumb to reincarnate

a woman – a savoring

of what the living once could bring.
Written by Emily Brontë | Create an image from this poem

Plead For Me

 Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell, why I have chosen thee! 

Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why I did cast the world away. 

Why I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless, alike, of wealth and power -
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower. 

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But, careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised. 

So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever - present, phantom thing;
My slave, my comrade, and my king, 

A slave, because I rule thee still;
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill:
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight, - 

My darling pain that wounds and sears
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By deadening me to earthly cares;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel. 

And am I wrong to worship, where
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee !
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Three Kings

 Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well. 

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews." 

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king." 

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill, 
The city of David where Christ was born. 

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned. 

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine. 

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

The Old And The New Masters

 About suffering, about adoration, the old masters 
Disagree. When someone suffers, no one else eats 
Or walks or opens the window--no one breathes 
As the sufferers watch the sufferer. 
In St. Sebastian Mourned by St. Irene
The flame of one torch is the only light. 
All the eyes except the maidservant's (she weeps 
And covers them with a cloth) are fixed on the shaft 
Set in his chest like a column; St. Irene's 
Hands are spread in the gesture of the Madonna, 
Revealing, accepting, what she does not understand. 
Her hands say: "Lo! Behold!" 
Beside her a monk's hooded head is bowed, his hands 
Are put together in the work of mourning. 
It is as if they were still looking at the lance 
Piercing the side of Christ, nailed on his cross. 
The same nails pierce all their hands and feet, the same 
Thin blood, mixed with water, trickles from their sides. 
The taste of vinegar is on every tongue 
That gasps, "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"
They watch, they are, the one thing in the world. 

So, earlier, everything is pointed 
In van der Goes' Nativity, toward the naked 
Shining baby, like the needle of a compass. 
The different orders and sizes of the world: 
The angels like Little People, perched in the rafters 
Or hovering in mid-air like hummingbirds; 
The shepherds, so big and crude, so plainly adoring; 
The medium-sized donor, his little family, 
And their big patron saints; the Virgin who kneels 
Before her child in worship; the Magi out in the hills 
With their camels--they ask directions, and have pointed out 
By a man kneeling, the true way; the ox 
And the donkey, two heads in the manger 
So much greater than a human head, who also adore; 
Even the offerings, a sheaf of wheat, 
A jar and a glass of flowers, are absolutely still 
In natural concentration, as they take their part 
In the salvation of the natural world. 
The time of the world concentrates 
On this one instant: far off in the rocks 
You can see Mary and Joseph and their donkey 
Coming to Bethlehem; on the grassy hillside 
Where their flocks are grazing, the shepherds gesticulate 
In wonder at the star; and so many hundreds 
Of years in the future, the donor, his wife, 
And their children are kneeling, looking: everything 
That was or will be in the world is fixed 
On its small, helpless, human center. 

After a while the masters show the crucifixion 
In one corner of the canvas: the men come to see 
What is important, see that it is not important. 
The new masters paint a subject as they please, 
And Veronese is prosecuted by the Inquisition 
For the dogs playing at the feet of Christ, 
The earth is a planet among galaxies. 
Later Christ disappears, the dogs disappear: in abstract 
Understanding, without adoration, the last master puts 
Colors on canvas, a picture of the universe 
In which a bright spot somewhere in the corner 
Is the small radioactive planet men called Earth.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry