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Best Famous Rain Or Shine Poems

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

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Written by John Dryden | Create an image from this poem

Happy The Man

 Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

Rain Or Shine

 the vultures at the zoo
(all three of the)
sit very quietly in their
caged tree
and below
on the ground
are chunks of rotten meat.
the vultures are over-full.
our taxes have fed them well.
we move on to the next cage.
a man is in there sitting on the ground eating his own ****.
i recognize him as our former mailman.
his favorite expression had been: "have a beautiful day.
" that day i did.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Black Swans

 As I lie at rest on a patch of clover 
In the Western Park when the day is done.
I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one.
O ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Trough the cooling air of the glorious night.
As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.
From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days.
O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strong inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.
Facing it yet! O my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the grain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.
And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing.
May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.
I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light; But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight.
And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now is our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.
There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken-- We should grieve for them with a bitter pain; If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again.
But on lonely nights we should hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain In the silent park a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more, as the swans fly over, Their far-off clamour from overhead.
They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his rate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mightly power with a purpose dread.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things