Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 301.  
    The Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
    Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine
  • 302.  
    UP, laggards of Freedom! â?? our free flag is cast
    To the blaze of the sun and the wings of the blast; Will ye turn from a struggle so bravely begun,
  • 303.  
    Up and down the village streets
    Strange are the forms my fancy meets, For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid,
  • 304.  
    ACROSS the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,
    The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free,
  • 305.  
    In the minister's morning sermon
    He had told of the primal fall, And how thenceforth the wrath of God
  • 306.  
    Luck to the craft that bears this name of mine,
    Good fortune follow with her golden spoon The glazed hat and tarry pantaloon;
  • 307.  
    ACROSS the frozen marshes
    The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter
  • 308.  
    Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires
    Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide
  • 309.  
    'Let there be light!' God spake of old,
    And over chaos dark and cold, And through the dead and formless frame
  • 310.  
    O Mother Earth! upon thy lap
    Thy weary ones receiving, And o'er them, silent as a dream,
  • 311.  
    THE sky is ruddy in the east,
    The earth is gray below, And, spectral in the river-mist,
  • 312.  
    Stranger and traveller,
  • 313.  
    The lowliest born of all the land,
    He wrung from Fate's reluctant hand The gifts which happier boyhood claims;
  • 314.  
    Ho! thou who seekest late and long
    A License from the Holy Book For brutal lust and fiendish wrong,
  • 315.  
    THROUGH the long hall the shuttered windows shed
    A dubious light on every upturned head; On locks like those of Absalom the fair,
  • 316.  
    ACROSS the sea I heard the groans
    Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones
  • 317.  
    The Khan came from Bokhara town
    To Hamza, santon of renown.
  • 318.  
    The fourteen centuries fall away
    Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day,
  • 319.  
    I did but dream. I never knew
    What charms our sternest season wore. Was never yet the sky so blue,
  • 320.  
    HARRIET BEECHER STOWE'S Letters from Italy.
    THE tall, sallow guardsmen their horsetails have spread, Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red;
  • 321.  
    How sweetly on the wood-girt town
    The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
  • 322.  
    The time of gifts has come again,
    And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day's brief light,
  • 323.  
    The fagots blazed, the caldron's smoke
    Up through the green wood curled; 'Bring honey from the hollow oak,
  • 324.  
    One morning of the first sad Fall,
    Poor Adam and his bride Sat in the shade of Eden's wall--
  • 325.  
    Against the sunset's glowing wall
    The city towers rise black and tall, Where Zorah, on its rocky height,
  • 326.  
    I sing the Pilgrim of a softer clime
  • 327.  
    Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
    Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing
  • 328.  
    AMONG the legends sung or said
    Along our rocky shore, The Wishing Bridge of Marblehead
  • 329.  
    Between the gates of birth and death
    An old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnesseth
  • 330.  
    "Tie stille, barn min!
    Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa'er din,
  • 331.  
    Around Sebago's lonely lake
    There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters make.
  • 332.  
    Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers,
    And gone the Summer's pomp and show, And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,
  • 333.  
    ' A! fredome is a nobill thing!
    Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Fredome all solace to man giffis;
  • 334.  
    I LOVE the old melodious lays
    Which softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenserâ??s golden days,
  • 335.  
    The gulf of seven and fifty years
    We stretch our welcoming hands across; The distance but a pebble's toss
  • 336.  
    How smiled the land of France
  • 337.  
    AMIDST thy sacred effigies
    Of old renown give place, O city, Freedom-loved! to his
  • 338.  
    Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime,
    Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? And, through the shade
  • 339.  
    I write my name as one,
    On sands by waves o'errun Or winter's frosted pane,
  • 340.  
    This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death.
    Among the thousands who with hail and cheer
  • 341.  
    Thine are all the gifts, O God!
    Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod,
  • 342.  
    Andrew Rykman's dead and gone;
    You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon
  • 343.  
    If thou of fortune be bereft,
    and in thy store there be but left two loaves, sell one, and with the
  • 344.  
    I. NOON.
    White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep, Light mists, whose soft embraces keep
  • 345.  
    WHEN first I saw our banner wave
    Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall
  • 346.  
    Ah! weary Priest! - with pale hands pressed
    On thy throbbing brow of pain, Baffled in thy life-long quest,
  • 347.  
    The burly driver at my side,
    We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide,
  • 348.  
    We live by Faith; but Faith is not the slave
    Of text and legend. Reason's voice and God's, Nature's and Duty's, never are at odds.
  • 349.  
    Far away in the twilight time
    Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire,
  • 350.  
    Seeress of the misty Norland,
    Daughter of the Vikings bold, Welcome to the sunny Vineland,
Total 471 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Poem of the day

 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.

Read complete poem

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