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Best Famous Sands Of Time Poems

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

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

A Psalm of Life

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist


TELL me not in mournful numbers  
Life is but an empty dream!¡ª 
For the soul is dead that slumbers  
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest! 5 And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art to dust returnest Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; 10 But to act that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long and Time is fleeting And our hearts though stout and brave Still like muffled drums are beating 15 Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle In the bivouac of Life Be not like dumb driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! 20 Trust no Future howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act ¡ªact in the living Present! Heart within and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us 25 We can make our lives sublime And departing leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints that perhaps another Sailing o'er life's solemn main 30 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother Seeing shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing With a heart for any fate; Still achieving still pursuing 35 Learn to labor and to wait.


Written by Leonard Cohen | Create an image from this poem

Waiting For The Miracle

 (co-written by Sharon Robinson)
Baby, I've been waiting, 
I've been waiting night and day.
I didn't see the time, I waited half my life away.
There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some, but I was waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
I know you really loved me.
but, you see, my hands were tied.
I know it must have hurt you, it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum, and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
Ah I don't believe you'd like it, You wouldn't like it here.
There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe.
The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do.
I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II.
Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken.
Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to come.
I dreamed about you, baby.
It was just the other night.
Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was light.
The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your thumb, and you were waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come Ah baby, let's get married, we've been alone too long.
Let's be alone together.
Let's see if we're that strong.
Yeah let's do something crazy, something absolutely wrong while we're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
Nothing left to do .
.
.
When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain, and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information, that's when you've got to play it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

A Parody on 'A Psalm of Life'

 Life is real, life is earnest, 
And the shell is not its pen –
“Egg thou art, and egg remainest”
Was not spoken of the hen.
Art is long and Time is fleeting, Be our bills then sharpened well, And not like muffled drums be beating On the inside of the shell.
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the great barnyard of life, Be not like those lazy cattle! Be a rooster in the strife! Lives of roosters all remind us, We can make our lives sublime, And when roasted, leave behind us, Hen tracks on the sands of time.
Hen tracks that perhaps another Chicken drooping in the rain, Some forlorn and henpecked brother, When he sees, shall crow again.
Written by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick | Create an image from this poem

The Soldier's Grave

[To the memory of Lieut. Wm. W. Wardell, of the First Massachusetts
Cavalry, killed May 28, 1864.]
Above his head the cypress waves
  Its dark green drooping leaves;
The sunlight through its branches wide
Where bright birds linger side by side
  A golden net-work weaves.
Within the church-yard's silent gloom
  He lies in quiet rest;
And never more to cold, pale brow,
Or proud lips mute with silence now
  Will loving lips be pressed.
Perhaps even now in death's dark dream
  He sees the deadly strife;
Where brothers fought with blinded eyes,
Forgetting all the tender ties
  That bound them life to life.
Ah! nobly there he proudly rode
  With honest, warm, true heart;
And shrank not from the carnage red,
But bravely thee, among the dead,
  He took a soldier's part.
Yet soon his hands fell helplessly,
  Low at his trembling side;
For on his brow the death drops rose,
While in his heart the life-blood froze
  And died his young life's pride.
The dark brown eyes, whose loving glance
  Gave happiness to all,
Have closed their weary lids for aye
Beneath the sunset of life's day,
  Where dark'ning shadows fall.
Oh, weary years that still creep on
  Adown the sands of Time,
Give back the loving tones of yore,
That haunt us here forever more
  As echoing church bell's chime.
And yet it cannot, cannot be
  That hearts must ever grieve;
Above his head the shadows fall,
Yet still the sunbeams shine through all
  And mystic splendors weave.
And thus upon the grieving heart
  That ever weeps for him,
The dark clouds fall, yet God's sweet light
Of faith still onward takes its flight,
  Through shadows vast and grim.
Oh! faint heart, with thy clinging grief,
  Look upward to the sky;
For there, beyond the weary strife,
Where angels ever guard thy life,
  There's One who hears thy cry.
Within the "City of the Dead"
  He only lies asleep;
And soon his hand will clasp once more
Thine own as oft he did of your,
  With love's pure feeling deep.