Poet John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems

  • 401.  
    The goodman sat beside his door
    One sultry afternoon, With his young wife singing at his side
  • 402.  
    Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
  • 403.  
    IN Westminster's royal halls,
    Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood
  • 404.  
    NOT with the splendors of the days of old,
    The spoil of nations, and barbaric gold; No weapons wrested from the fields of blood,
  • 405.  
    THEY sat in silent watchfulness
    The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
  • 406.  
    Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
    I would question thee, Alone in the shadow drear and stark
  • 407.  
    GREYSTONE, AUG. 4, 1886.
    Once more, O all-adjusting Death!
  • 408.  
    Who gives and hides the giving hand,
    Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Shall find his smallest gift outweighs
  • 409.  
    When on my day of life the night is falling,
    And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling
  • 410.  
    Blest land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
    Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
  • 411.  
    So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame,
    Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame The traffickers in men, and put to shame,
  • 412.  
    WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!
    Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,
  • 413.  
    Ho! workers of the old time styled
    The Gentle Craft of Leather! Young brothers of the ancient guild,
  • 414.  
    The Eagle, stooping from yon snow-blown peaks,
    For the wild hunter and the Bison seeks, In the changed world below; and finds alone
  • 415.  
    THE winding way the serpent takes
    The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes,
  • 416.  
    To kneel before some saintly shrine,
    To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow,
  • 417.  
    Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day,
    While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice,
  • 418.  
    'And where now, Bayard, will thy footsteps tend?' My sister asked our guest one winter's day.
  • 419.  
    'O for a knight like Bayard,
    Without reproach or fear; My light glove on his casque of steel,
  • 420.  
    O strong, upwelling prayers of faith,
    From inmost founts of life ye start,- The spirit's pulse, the vital breath
  • 421.  
    'GREAT peace in Europe! Order reigns
    From Tiber's hills to Danube's plains!' So say her kings and priests; so say
  • 422.  
    The years are many since his hand
    Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand
  • 423.  
    Where Time the measure of his hours
    By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers,
  • 424.  
    She sings by her wheel at that low cottage door,
    Which the long evening shadow is stretching before; With a music as sweet as the music which seems
  • 425.  
    Thrice welcome from the Land of Flowers
    And golden-fruited orange bowers To this sweet, green-turfed June of ours!
  • 426.  
    Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines
    Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn
  • 427.  
    A score of years had come and gone
    Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, When Captain Underhill, bearing scars
  • 428.  
    I GIVE thee joy!â??I know to thee
    The dearest spot on earth must be Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
  • 429.  
    Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass
    Detects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I owe
  • 430.  
    Talk not of sad November, when a day
    Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon, And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June,
  • 431.  
    BEAMS of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash and glisten,
    As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and listen. Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient Jewish song:
  • 432.  
    THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into
  • 433.  
    OUR fellow-countrymen in chains!
    Slaves, in a land of light and law! Slaves, crouching on the very plains
  • 434.  
    'WHY urge the long, unequal fight,
    Since Truth has fallen in the street, Or lift anew the trampled light,
  • 435.  
    THANK God for rest, where none molest,
    And none can make afraid; For Peace that sits as Plenty's guest
  • 436.  
    MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil,
    'Lord!' I cried in sudden ire, 'From Thy right hand, clothed with thunder,
  • 437.  
    HAPPY young friends, sit by me,
  • 438.  
    THE wave is breaking on the shore,
    The echo fading from the chime; Again the shadow moveth o'er
  • 439.  
    What flecks the outer gray beyond
    The sundown's golden trail? The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,
  • 440.  
    FROM these wild rocks I look to-day
    O'er leagues of dancing waves, and see The far, low coast-line stretch away
  • 441.  
    THE cannon's brazen lips are cold;
    No red shell blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old,
  • 442.  
    Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,
    The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn, And on a wintry waste
  • 443.  
    Immortal Love, forever full,
    Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole,
  • 444.  
    Smoothing soft the nestling head
    Of a maiden fancy-led, Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
  • 445.  
    A MOONY breadth of virgin face,
    By thought unviolated; A patient mouth, to take from scorn
  • 446.  
    No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest
    Goaded from shore to shore; No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest,
  • 447.  
    Not vainly did old poets tell,
    Nor vainly did old genius paint God's great and crowning miracle,
  • 448.  
    Some die too late and some too soon,
    At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,
  • 449.  
    IN the solemn days of old,
    Two men met in Boston town, One a tradesman frank and bold,
  • 450.  
    O STATE prayer-founded! never hung
    Such choice upon a people's tongue, Such power to bless or ban,
Total 471 poems written by John Greenleaf Whittier

Poem of the day

The Wood-Cutter
 by Robert William Service

The sky is like an envelope,
One of those blue official things;
And, sealing it, to mock our hope,
The moon, a silver wafer, clings.
What shall we find when death gives leave
To read--our sentence or reprieve?

I'm holding it down on God's scrap-pile, up on the fag-end of earth;

Read complete poem

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