Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 251.  
    ONCE, more, dear friends, you meet beneath
    A clouded sky: Not yet the sword has found its sheath,
  • 252.  
    In that black forest, where, when day is done,
    With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
  • 253.  
    Blossom and greenness, making all
    The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay,
  • 254.  
    WHEN Freedom, on her natal day,
    Within her war-rocked cradle lay, An iron race around her stood,
  • 255.  
    Make, for he loved thee well, our Merrimac,
    From wave and shore a low and long lament For him, whose last look sought thee, as he went
  • 256.  
    In the fair land o'erwatched by Ischia's mountains,
    Across the charmed bay Whose blue waves keep with Capri's silver fountains
  • 257.  
    BEAR him, comrades, to his grave;
    Never over one more brave Shall the prairie grasses weep,
  • 258.  
    We had been wandering for many days
    Through the rough northern country. We had seen The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud,
  • 259.  
    I.
    The mercy, O Eternal One! By man unmeasured yet,
  • 260.  
    She came and stood in the Old South Church,
    A wonder and a sign, With a look the old-time sibyls wore,
  • 261.  
    A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.
    To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
  • 262.  
    In the outskirts of the village
    On the river's winding shores Stand the Occidental plane-trees,
  • 263.  
    John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:
    'I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay. But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
  • 264.  
    O dearest bloom the seasons know,
    Flowers of the Resurrection blow, Our hope and faith restore;
  • 265.  
    O lonely bay of Trinity,
    O dreary shores, give ear! Lean down unto the white-lipped sea
  • 266.  
    O Mother State! the winds of March
    Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God, Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch
  • 267.  
    A BLUSH as of roses
    Where rose never grew! Great drops on the bunch-grass,
  • 268.  
    All day the darkness and the cold
    Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky,
  • 269.  
    TO A YOUNG PHYSICIAN, WITH DORE'S PICTURE OF CHRIST
    HEALING THE SICK.
  • 270.  
    One day, along the electric wire
    His manly word for Freedom sped; We came next morn: that tongue of fire
  • 271.  
    Around Sebago's lonely lake
    There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.
  • 272.  
    "Put up the sword!" The voice of Christ once more
    Speaks, in the pauses of the cannon's roar, O'er fields of corn by fiery sickles reaped
  • 273.  
    The same old baffling questions! O my friend,
    I cannot answer them. In vain I send My soul into the dark, where never burn
  • 274.  
    Read at the unveiling of the bust of Elizabeth Fry at the Friends'
    School, Providence, R. I.
  • 275.  
    THE Quaker of the olden time!
    How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime,
  • 276.  
    God's love and peace be with thee, where
    Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair.
  • 277.  
    I.
    Fate summoned, in gray-bearded age, to act A history stranger than his written fact,
  • 278.  
    THE Rabbi Ishmael, with the woe and sin
    Of the world heavy upon him, entering in The Holy of Holies, saw an awful Face
  • 279.  
    I shall not soon forget that sight
    The glow of Autumn's westering day, A hazy warmth, a dreamy light,
  • 280.  
    IS this thy voice whose treble notes of fear
    Wail in the wind? And dost thou shake to hear, Actæon-like, the bay of thine own hounds,
  • 281.  
    HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen,
    Through cane-brake and forest, â?? the hunting of men? The lords of our land to this hunting have gone,
  • 282.  
    The sun that brief December day
    Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon
  • 283.  
    At morn I prayed, 'I fain would see
    How Three are One, and One is Three; Read the dark riddle unto me.'
  • 284.  
    They left their home of summer ease
    Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees, To seek, by ways unknown to all,
  • 285.  
    THROUGH heat and cold, and shower and sun,
    Still onward cheerly driving! There's life alone in duty done,
  • 286.  
    ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.
    No more these simple flowers belong
  • 287.  
    YORKTOWN.
    FROM Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still, Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill:
  • 288.  
    Father! to Thy suffering poor
    Strength and grace and faith impart, And with Thy own love restore
  • 289.  
    BENEATH the low-hung night cloud
    That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly,
  • 290.  
    'Jove means to settle
    Astraea in her seat again, And let down his golden chain
  • 291.  
    MY ear is full of summer sounds,
    Of summer sights my languid eye; Beyond the dusty village bounds
  • 292.  
    A CHRISTIAN! going, gone!
    Who bids for God's own image? for his grace, Which that poor victim of the market-place
  • 293.  
    I.
    FRIENDof the Slave, and yet the friend of all; Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when
  • 294.  
    O Norah, lay your basket down,
    And rest your weary hand, And come and hear me sing a song
  • 295.  
    Outbound, your bark awaits you. Were I one
    Whose prayer availeth much, my wish should be Your favoring trad-wind and consenting sea.
  • 296.  
    A HARVEST IDYL.
    PROEM.
  • 297.  
    Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars,
    And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars,
  • 298.  
    THE moon has set: while yet the dawn
    Breaks cold and gray, Between the midnight and the morn
  • 299.  
    Of all that Orient lands can vaunt
    Of marvels with our own competing, The strangest is the Haschish plant,
  • 300.  
    I.
    'Encore un hymne, O ma lyre Un hymn pour le Seigneur,
Total 471 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Poem of the day

Triolets
 by Sara Teasdale

Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.
Was it for love of lost delight
Love looked back as he took his flight?
Only I know while day grew night,
Turning still to the vanished years,
Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.
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