Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Uplifting Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Mary Elizabeth Frye | Create an image from this poem

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

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


 By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters- lone and dead,- Their still waters- still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,- Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,- By the mountains- near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,- By the grey woods,- by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp- By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,- By each spot the most unholy- In each nook most melancholy- There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by- White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region- For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not- dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem


WHEN descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox  
Landward in his wrath he scourges 
The toiling surges 5 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks: 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 
Of sunken ledges  
In some far-off bright Azore; 
From Bahama and the dashing 10 
Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries  
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 15 
And from wrecks of ships and drifting 
Spars uplifting 
On the desolate rainy seas;¡ª 

Ever drifting drifting drifting 
On the shifting 20 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves and reaches 
Of sandy beaches  
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion 25 Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul erelong From each cave and rocky fastness In its vastness Floats some fragment of a song: 30 From the far-off isles enchanted Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf whose vision Gleams Elysian 35 In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will and the Endeavor That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered 40 Tempest-shattered Floating waste and desolate;¡ª Ever drifting drifting drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; 45 Till at length in books recorded They like hoarded Household words no more depart.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Blanche Sweet


(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water.
") Beauty has a throne-room In our humorous town, Spoiling its hob-goblins, Laughing shadows down.
Rank musicians torture Ragtime ballads vile, But we walk serenely Down the odorous aisle.
We forgive the squalor And the boom and squeal For the Great Queen flashes From the moving reel.
Just a prim blonde stranger In her early day, Hiding brilliant weapons, Too averse to play, Then she burst upon us Dancing through the night.
Oh, her maiden radiance, Veils and roses white.
With new powers, yet cautious, Not too smart or skilled, That first flash of dancing Wrought the thing she willed:— Mobs of us made noble By her strong desire, By her white, uplifting, Royal romance-fire.
Though the tin piano Snarls its tango rude, Though the chairs are shaky And the dramas crude, Solemn are her motions, Stately are her wiles, Filling oafs with wisdom, Saving souls with smiles; 'Mid the restless actors She is rich and slow.
She will stand like marble, She will pause and glow, Though the film is twitching, Keep a peaceful reign, Ruler of her passion, Ruler of our pain!
Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

The Gulls


Soft is the sky in the mist-kirtled east,
Light is abroad on the sea,
All of the heaven with silver is fleeced, 
Holding the sunrise in fee.
Lo! with a flash and uplifting of wings Down where the long ripples break, Cometh a bevy of glad-hearted things, 'Tis morn, for the gulls are awake.
II Slumberous calm on the ocean and shore Comes with the turn of the tide; Never a strong-sweeping pinion may soar, Where the tame fishing-boats ride! Far and beyond in blue deserts of sea Where the wild winds are at play, There may the spirits of sea-birds be free­ 'Tis noon, for the gulls are away.
III Over the rim of the sunset is blown Sea-dusk of purple and gold, Speed now the wanderers back to their own, Wings the most tireless must fold.
Homeward together at twilight they flock, Sated with joys of the deep Drowsily huddled on headland and rock­ 'Tis night, for the gulls are asleep.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

In the Days of the Golden Rod

 Across the meadow in brooding shadow
I walk to drink of the autumn's wine­
The charm of story, the artist's glory,
To-day on these silvering hills is mine;
On height, in hollow, where'er I follow,
By mellow hillside and searing sod,
Its plumes uplifting, in light winds drifting,
I see the glimmer of golden-rod.
In this latest comer the vanished summer Has left its sunshine the world to cheer, And bids us remember in late September What beauty mates with the passing year.
The days that are fleetest are still the sweetest, And life is near to the heart of God, And the peace of heaven to earth is given In this wonderful time of the golden-rod.
Written by Emile Verhaeren | Create an image from this poem

Although we saw this bright garden

Although we saw this bright garden, wherein we pass silently, flower before our eyes, it is rather in us that grows the pleasantest and fairest garden in the world.
For we live all the flowers, all the plants and all the grasses in our laughter and our tears of pure and calm happiness.
For we live all the transparencies of the blue pond that reflects the rich growths of the golden roses and the great vermilion lilies, sun-lips and mouths.
For we live all joy, thrown out in the cries of festival and spring of our avowals, wherein heartfelt and uplifting words sing side by side.
Oh! is it not indeed in us that grows the pleasantest and the gladdest garden in the world?
Written by Alan Seeger | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XVI: Who Shall Invoke Her

 Who shall invoke her, who shall be her priest,
With single rites the common debt to pay?
On some green headland fronting to the East
Our fairest boy shall kneel at break of day.
Naked, uplifting in a laden tray New milk and honey and sweet-tinctured wine, Not without twigs of clustering apple-spray To wreath a garland for Our Lady's shrine.
The morning planet poised above the sea Shall drop sweet influence through her drowsing lid; Dew-drenched, his delicate virginity Shall scarce disturb the flowers he kneels amid, That, waked so lightly, shall lift up their eyes, Cushion his knees, and nod between his thighs.
Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem



In quel bel viso, ch' i' sospiro e bramo.


On the fair face for which I long and sigh
Mine eyes were fasten'd with desire intense.
When, to my fond thoughts, Love, in best reply,
Her honour'd hand uplifting, shut me thence.
My heart there caught—as fish a fair hook by,
Or as a young bird on a limèd fence—
[Pg 223]For good deeds follow from example high,
To truth directed not its busied sense.
But of its one desire my vision reft,
As dreamingly, soon oped itself a way,
Which closed, its bliss imperfect had been left:
My soul between those rival glories lay,
Fill'd with a heavenly and new delight,
Whose strange surpassing sweets engross'd it quite.
Written by Emile Verhaeren | Create an image from this poem

If our hearts have burned in uplifting days

If our hearts have burned in uplifting days with a love as bright as it was lofty, age now makes us slack and indulgent and mild before our faults.
You no longer make us greater, O youthful will, with your unsubdued ardour, and our life is coloured now with gentle calm and pale kindliness.
We are at the setting of your sun, love, and we mask our weakness with the common-place words and poor speeches of an empty, tardy wisdom.
Oh! how sad and shameful would the future be for us if from our winter and our mistiness there did not break out like a torch the memory of the high-spirited souls we once were.