Best Famous Reliance Poems

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• All Famous Reliance Poems

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Frances SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe. Wringing her hands, at intervals­ But long as mute as phantom dim­ She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters, grim. The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement, spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden arch-way, soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic-seat and stand; Weary she sat her down and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And, trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. ' God help me, in my grievous need, God help me, in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no license to complain; Which must be borne, yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight­ The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate ? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm, mask inward strife ?' She waited­as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. ' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep; Grief I restrain­hope I repress: Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; Dark­imageless­a living tomb ! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.' Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed­then again, Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. ' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend ? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? The blank of lost identity ? Erasure both of pain and bliss ? I've heard of heaven­I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve, Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh ! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast ? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire ? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? Rest, which was weariness on earth ? Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth ? Will he find love without lust's leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given, In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation's Sire­Existence' God ? Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity's repose, Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? If so­endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life's flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit's power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved, Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe, Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss, Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it, It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom's lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; Joy, but the desert's flying stream; And, glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn, Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor even one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly ! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come ? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, 'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling­turned to utter anguish, Is not my being's only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet­time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished ! I am not loved­nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, Traitors ! mislead me not again ! To words like yours I bid defiance, 'Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace­hope for aid. Morn comes­and ere meridian glory O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by Walt Whitman | As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days AS I walk these broad, majestic days of peace, (For the war, the struggle of blood finish’d, wherein, O terrific Ideal! Against vast odds, having gloriously won, Now thou stridest on—yet perhaps in time toward denser wars, Perhaps to engage in time in still more dreadful contests, dangers, Longer campaigns and crises, labors beyond all others; —As I walk solitary, unattended, Around me I hear that eclat of the world—politics, produce, The announcements of recognized things—science, The approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions. I see the ships, (they will last a few years,) The vast factories, with their foremen and workmen, And here the indorsement of all, and do not object to it. But I too announce solid things; Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing—I watch them, Like a grand procession, to music of distant bugles, pouring, triumphantly moving—and grander heaving in sight; They stand for realities—all is as it should be. Then my realities; What else is so real as mine? Libertad, and the divine average—Freedom to every slave on the face of the earth, The rapt promises and luminé of seers—the spiritual world—these centuries lasting songs, And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any. For we support all, fuse all, After the rest is done and gone, we remain; There is no final reliance but upon us; Democracy rests finally upon us (I, my brethren, begin it,) And our visions sweep through eternity.

Written by Walt Whitman | Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances OF the terrible doubt of appearances, Of the uncertainty after all—that we may be deluded, That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all, That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only, May-be the things I perceive—the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters, The skies of day and night—colors, densities, forms—May-be these are, (as doubtless they are,) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known; (How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me and mock me! How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them;) May-be seeming to me what they are, (as doubtless they indeed but seem,) as from my present point of view—And might prove, (as of course they would,) naught of what they appear, or naught any how, from entirely changed points of view; —To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answer’d by my lovers, my dear friends; When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand, When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us, Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom—I am silent—I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave; But I walk or sit indifferent—I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

Written by Henry Van Dyke | The Ancestral Dwelling Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation, They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity. I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them: Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned Howers, A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows, The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter, The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics, -- All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance. I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean; Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten; Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage. They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them: Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted, While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises, Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle. I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns, They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses. They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten, They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality. In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings, With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps; And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings, (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight); And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans, Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows; And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston, Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias. Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful; For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation; The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Independence Ode Columbia, fair queen in your glory! Columbia, the pride of the earth! We crown you with song- wreath and story; We honour the day of your birth! The wrath of a king and his minions You braved, to be free, on that day; And the eagle sailed up on strong pinions, And frightened the lion at bay. Since the chains and the shackles are broken, And citizens now replace slaves, Since the hearts of your heros have spoken How dear they held freedom - by graves. Your beautiful banner is blotless As it floats to the breezes unfurled, And but for one blemish, all spotless Is the record you show to the world. Like a scar on the features of beauty, Lies Utah, sin-cursed to the west. Columbia! Columbia! your duty Is to wipe out that stain with the rest! Not only in freedom, and science, And letters, should you lead the earth; But let the earth learn your reliance In honour and true moral worth. When Liberty's torch shall be lighted, Let her brightest most far-reaching rays Discover no wrong thats unrighted - Go challenge the jealous world's gaze! Columbia, your star is ascending! Columbia, all lands own your sway! May your reign be as proud and unrending As your glory is brilliant today.

Written by Robert William Service | Lost Shepherd Ah me! How hard is destiny! If we could only know. . . . I bought my son from Sicily A score of years ago; I haled him from our sunny vale To streets of din and squalor, And left it to professors pale To make of him a scholar. Had he remained a peasant lad, A shepherd on the hill, like golden faun in goatskin clad He might be singing still; He would have made the flock his care And lept with gay reliance On thymy heights, unwitting there Was such a thing as science. He would have crooned to his guitar, Draughts of chianti drinking; A better destiny by far Than reading, writing, thinking. So bent above his books was he, His thirst for knowledge slaking, He did not realize that we Are worm-food in the making. Ambition got him in its grip And inched him to his doom; Fate granted him a fellowship, Then graved for him a tomb. "Beneath my feet I can't allow The grass to grow," he said; And toiled so tirelessly that now It grows above his head. His honour scrolls shall feed the flame, They mean no more to me; His ashes I with bitter blame Will take to Sicily. And there I'll weep with heart bereft, By groves and sunny rills, And wish my laughing boy I'd left A shepherd on the hills.

Written by Henry Van Dyke | Reliance Not to the swift, the race: Not to the strong, the fight: Not to the righteous, perfect grace: Not to the wise, the light. But often faltering feet Come surest to the goal; And they who walk in darkness meet The sunrise of the soul. A thousand times by night The Syrian hosts have died; A thousand times the vanquished right Hath risen, glorified. The truth the wise men sought Was spoken by a child; The alabaster box was brought In trembling hands defiled. Not from my torch, the gleam, But from the stars above: Not from my heart, life's crystal stream, But from the depths of Love.

Written by Henry Lawson | Republican Pioneers We're marching along, we're gath'ring strong' We place on our right reliance, We fling in the air, for all who care, Our first loud notes of defiance! We fling in the air, For all who care, Our first loud notes of defiance! Laugh long and loud, you toady crowd, At the men you call benighted, In spite of your sneers, we are pioneers Of "Australian States United"! In spite of your sneers, We are pioneers Of "Australian States United"! Not long we'll stand as an outlaw band, And be in our country lonely, For soon to the sky shall ring our cry, Our cry of "Australia only"! For soon to the sky Shall mount our cry, Our cry of "Australia only"! And we'll sleep sound in Australian ground, 'Neath the blue-cross flag star lighted, When it freely waves o'er the grass-grown graves Of the pioneers united! When it floats and veers O'er the pioneers Of "Australian States United"!