Quotes about psalm, page 17
The Christmas Of 1888
Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,
The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn,
And on a wintry waste
Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown,
Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down,
The waning moon half-faced!
In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth,
What sign was there of the immortal birth?
What herald of the One?
Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came,
A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame,
Up rolled the round, bright sun!
And all was changed. From a transfigured world
The moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curled
Up the still air unblown.
In Orient warmth and brightness, did that morn
O'er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born,
Break fairer than our own?
[...] Read more
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Animal Funerals, 1964
That summer, we did not simply walk through
the valley of the shadow of death; we set up camp there,
orchestrating funerals for the anonymous,
found dead: a drowned mole—its small, naked palms
still pink—a crushed box turtle, green snake, even
a lowly toad. The last and most elaborate
of the burials was for a common jay,
identifiable but light and dry,
its eyes vacant orbits. We built a delicate
lichgate of willow fronds, supple, green—laced
through with chains of clover. Straggling congregation,
we recited what we could of the psalm
about green pastures as we lowered the shoebox
and its wilted pall of dandelions into the shallow
[...] Read more
poem by Claudia Emerson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Grace Of Clydeside
AH, little Grace of the golden locks,
The hills rise fair on the shores of Clyde.
As the merry waves wear out these rocks
She wears my heart out, glides past and mocks:
But heaven's gate ever stands open wide.
The boat goes softly along, along,
Like a river of life glows the amber Clyde;
Her voice floats near me like angel's song,--
Ah, sweet love-death, but thy pangs are strong!
Though heaven's gate ever stands open wide.
We walk by the shore and the stars shine bright,
But coldly, above the solemn Clyde:
Her arm touches mine--her laugh rings light--
ONE hears my silence: His merciful night
Hides me--Can heaven be open wide?
I ever was but a dreamer, Grace:
As the gray hills watch o'er the sunny Clyde,
[...] Read more
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Two Sonnets
I
"Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad
As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries?
Each night since first the world was made hath had
A sequent day to laugh it down the skies.
Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice,
Or seal in silence this unmanly moan."
My friend, I have no power to rule my voice --
A spirit lifts me where I lie alone,
And thrills me into song by its own laws;
That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed
Tempering the melody it could not cause.
The bleeding heart cannot forever bleed
Inwardly solely; on the wan lips, too,
Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view.
II
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Black Woman
She’s native, naked, she’s native and naked
She takes me down and wipes my body
She holds me in her arms and warms my heart
She pushes into my mouth with the smell from future voices
She multitudes my soul into many magnificent beliefs
She never is betrayal to love
Ain’t no mountain fireplace gonna encounter her burnt scar
Ain’t tiptoe intense kiss gonna undress her lips
She has powers in dignity and her nights endure my feelings
with the moon or stars
She turned my life’s passions too beautifully for sleeping
whispering
Glory travels worthy in her lyric spirit
I am fragile in mine but she comes in galaxy memorised
Some outrageous reality remains in this society, but she comes
down plundering moves by radio hateness
She has been disappearing
She has been reappearing
She is the spice of earth and is the psalm’s tangled up in flesh matters
my embracements are mine
[...] Read more
poem by Lionel Fogarty
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
O, Little David, Play on Your Harp
O, Little David, play on your harp,
That ivory harp with the golden strings
And sing as you did in Jewry Land,
Of the Prince of Peace and the God of Love
And the coming Christ Immanuel.
O, Little David, play on your harp.
A seething world is gone stark mad;
And is drunk with the blood,
Gorged with the flesh,
Blinded with the ashes
Of her millions of dead.
From out it all and over all
There stands, years old and fully grown,
A monster in the guise of man.
He is of war and not of war;
Born in peace,
Nurtured in arrogant pride and greed,
World-creature is he and native to no land.
And war itself is merciful
[...] Read more
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Though Some Good Things Of Lower Worth
The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance. Psalm 16:5.
Though some good things of lower worth
My heart is called on to resign,
Of all the gifts in heaven and earth,
The greatest and the best is mine
The love of God in Christ made known
The love that is enough alone,
My Father's love is all my own.
My soul's Restorer, let me learn
In that deep love to live and rest
Let me the precious thing discern
Of which I am indeed possessed.
My treasure let me feel and see,
And let my moments, as they flee,
Unfold my endless life in Thee.
Let me not dwell so much within
My bounded heart, with anxious heed
[...] Read more
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Angel Faces
I.
I SHALL not paint them. God them sees, and I:
No other can, nor need. They have no form,
I may not close with human kisses warm
Their eyes which shine afar or from on high,
But never will shine nearer till I die.
How long, how long! See, I am growing old;
I have quite ceased to note in my hair's fold
The silver threads that there in ambush lie;
Some angel faces bent from heaven would pine
To trace the sharp lines graven upon mine;
What matter? in the wrinkles ploughed by care
Let age tread after, sowing immortal seeds;
All this life's harvest yielded, wheat or weeds,
Is reaped, methinks: at my little field lies bare.
II.
BUT in the night time, 'twixt it and the stars,
[...] Read more
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Eudoxia. Second Picture
O DEAREST my sister, my sister who sits by the hearth,
With lids softly drooping, or lifted up saintly and calm,
With household hands folded, or opened for help and for balm,
And lips, ripe and dewy, or ready for innocent mirth,--
Thy life rises upwards to heaven everyday like a psalm
Which the singer sings sleeping, and waked, would half wondering say--
'I sang not. Nay, how could I sing thus?--I only do pray.'
O gentlest my sister, who walks in at every dark door
Whether bolted or open, unheedful of welcome or frown;
But entering silent as sunlight, and there sitting down,
Illumines the damp walls and shines pleasant shapes on the floor,
And unlocks dim chambers where low lies sad Hope, without crown,
Uplifts her from sackcloth and ashes and black mourning weeds,
Re-crowns and re-clothes her.--Then, on to the next door that needs.
O blessed my sister, whose spirit so wholly dost live
In loving, that even the word 'loved,' with its rapturous sound,
Rings faintly, like earth-tunes when angels are hymning around:
Whose eyes say: 'Less happy methinks to receive than to give.'--
[...] Read more
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Elegy
The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half voda half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?
If God were the uncertain, would you cling to him?
Beneath a tattoo of stars the gate open, so silent so like a tomb.
This is the city you most loved, an empty stairwell
where the next rain lifts invisibly from the Seine.
With solitude, your coat open, you walk
steadily as if the railings were there and your hands weren't passing
through them.
"When things were ready, they poured on fuel and touched off the fire.
They waited for a high wind. It was very fine, that powdered bone.
It was put into sacks, and when there was enough we went to a bridge
on the Narew River."
And even less explicit phrases survived:
"To make charcoal.
[...] Read more
poem by Carolyn Forché
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!