Sonnet 16
WHEN I remember with what buoyant heart,
Midst war's alarms and woes of civil strife,
In youthful eagerness, thou didst depart,
At peril of thy safety, peace, and life,
To nurse the wounded soldier, swathe the dead --
How piercéd soon by fever's poisoned dart,
And brought unconscious home, with wildered head --
Thou, ever since, mid languor and dull pain,
To conquer fortune, cherish kindred dear,
Hast with grave studies vexed a sprightly brain,
In myriad households kindled love and cheer;
Ne'er from thyself by Fame's loud trump beguiled,
Sounding in this and the farther hemisphere: --
I press thee to my heart, as Duty's faithful child.
poem by Amos Bronson Alcott
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Sonnet: God Ne’er Forsakes Me
How many times have I ignored warnings?
How many times have I tried not to heed?
How many times have I sinned by mornings?
And yet, Thou didst forgive my acts indeed.
How many times have I walked in sin’s paths?
How many times have I reveled in sin?
How many times have I taken sin-baths?
And yet, Thou didst help me o’er Tempter win.
How many times have I failed my duties?
How many times have I Thee disobeyed?
How many times have I lost my mind’s peace?
And yet, Thou didst come promptly to my aid.
How many times have I forgotten Thee?
And yet, Thou didst not once ev’r forsake me.
7-23-2001
poem by John Celes
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Then and Now -A Stone Breaker
When first I saw thee breaking stones
My heart was filled with praise
And delight on a rose like face.
What heaving bosom and how did it nurse
The hopes of life and desires of youth
And how joyfully didst thou talk
Of life everlasting.
But now I am pained to see thee;
Is it thou same young lady?
So changed in so short a time!
These sunken eyes, these hollow looks
Are these the same that pierced my heart?
O stony stare, where is life?
Whither is hope fled?
These withered cheeks, these pale lips
No more betray the colour of a rose;
And this bosom which once did nurse
The hopes of life; the joys of youth:
To this bosom now clings a child,
A life! Oh no no no
It's misery nursing death.
The Mediator
O Christ, true Son of God most high,
Thy name we praise for ever;
Whoe'er to Thee for help doth cry
Shall find Thee fail him never;
'Tis Thou wilt plead,
Thou intercede
With God, for us who need Thy prayers so sore:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
To Thee the Father giveth now
All power in earth and heaven;
Sin, Satan, Death to Thee must bow,
All fetters Thou hast riven,
Bade fear to cease,
And made our peace,
That now to God we dare our hearts outpour:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
Fulness of grace is in Thy Word;
The Life, the Truth, the Way
To life eternal art Thou, Lord;
To Thee alone we pray,
Who didst appear
A servant here
To bear the sin that crushed the world before:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
poem by Hans Sachs
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A Hand For My Perfect End
Does it hurt so bad
So much to make you mad?
Does it rip your heart apart
So that your strenght depart?
Does it wear you inside out
And bring your tears running south?
Yes! It does more to me
For all the good there be
It turns my sweat crimson flood
And my wounded soul dripping blood
Yet through the death of some of me
Even in the midst of my solemn plea
I find this strenght within
And a voice chanting ' thou shall win'
So out with those pain and sweat- turned red
Out with those heat and south bound tears
Even my wounded soul that bled
And the host of my mortal fears
All shall this moment lend
A hand for my perfect end
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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Sonnet: Elixir of Life
O God, give me the Elixir of Life
To stay alive a century or more;
Thou free me forever from all my strife;
In divine love, let heart, mind and soul grow!
Poets of past years had a short life-span,
And died of disease, poverty and strife;
I wish to live long, die a holy man;
Give me on earth a spiritual Bard-life!
Could I be happy on earth and heaven?
Aware I am, Thou made me from mere clod;
Why didst Thou make me bard amidst such men?
What do I give Thee in return, O God?
Poems of mine will vindicate my love
And live for long, before I fly above!
(9-20-2000)
poem by John Celes
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Brittania's Throne
MIRROR of the trackless sky,
Priestess of its changing mood,
Ere thy shores were piled on high
Thou didst feel God’s Spirit brood;
Thou didst hear His word alone;—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
From thy deeps the creeping things
Spread through cove and brook and fen,
Changing scales for soaring wings
And the mould of mortal men;
From thy womb the world hath grown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
Then among the happier ones
Filing in millennial train,
Thou didst make us favoured sons,
Teaching us to rule and reign:
Thou didst call us for thine own—
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
Mighty Mistress, thou didst school
England’s heart in all thy ways;
May she learn no nicer rule
In the ease of after days;
For the greatness we have known
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
For the passion of our plea,
For the memory of our brave,
For the fights we fought for thee,
For the bones that thou dost lave,
For the love that we have shown!
Be thou still Britannia’s throne.
poem by Arthur Maquarie
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXVII
THE SAME CONTINUED
Thy ways were not my ways. Thy life was peace,
And mine has been a battle. Thou didst store
Thy soul's wealth sternly to a sure increase,
And thy revenue's much still swelled to more.
Thou squanderedst nothing on the pomp of war,
The lust of glory. No mad covetous eyes
Were thine upon thy neighbour's lands afar,
His wealth, his wife, his fenceless vanities.
Thou wert a brave, just man, whom all men knew
And trusted, and some loved, and thou to me
Wert as a tower of strength, a sanctuary
To which I fled from the world's maddened crew,
Wounded by me, and there with bloodstained hands
Clung to the altar of thy innocence.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Jeanne d'Arc Returns
1914-1916
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--
Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,--
Make answer in a noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take:
My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,--
My feet to run her errands through the dark,--
My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,--
And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Sonnet to Ocean
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth!
Yet didst thou n'er restore my fainting health?—
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me?—
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Lines on the Death of Julia
Accept, bright spirit, reft in life's best bloom
This votive wreath to thy untimely tomb.
Formed to adorn all scenes, and charm in all,
The fire-side circle, and the courtly hall;
Thy friends to gladden, and thy home to bless;---
Fair form thou hadst, and grace, and graciousness;
A mind that sought, a tongue that spoke, the truth,
And thought mature beneath the smiles of youth.
Dear, dear young friend! ingenuous, cordial heart!
And can it be, that thou shouldst first depart?
That age should sorrow o'er thy youthful shrine?
It owns more near, more sacred griefs than mine;
Yet, midst the many who thy loss deplore,
Few loved thee better, and few mourn thee more.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Didst Thou Rejoice?
Didst thou rejoice because the day was fair,—
Because, in orient splendor newly dressed,
On flowering glebe and bloomless mountain-crest
The sun complacent smiled? Ah! didst thou
dare
The careless rapture of that bird to share
Which, soaring toward the dawn from dewy nest,
Hailed it with song? From Ocean's treacherous
breast
Didst borrow the repose mild-mirrored there?
Thou foolish heart! Behold! the light is spent;
Rude thunders shake the crags; songs timorous
cease;
Lo! with what moan and mutinous lament
Ocean his pent-up passions doth release!
O thou who seekest sure and fixed content,
Search in thy soul: there find some source of
peace.
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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God’s Peace
There is a peace available, in troubled times, but not to all,
A peace available all the time, greater than peace of mind,
And this peace goes everywhere, to handle every tiny care,
But it has no limits to, the problems it can see you through.
The peace that I’m speaking of, will only come from above,
Peace God gives to His own, flowing down from His throne,
The peace of God all receive, when by faith they do believe,
The Gospel Truth of His Son, Christ, who died for everyone.
Though He died, now He lives, as this peace to us He gives,
Sent to believers in this life, to shelter them from daily strife,
The Holy Spirit is God’s agent, in whom God’s peace is sent,
The Spirit is our true comforter, giving us peace in trials sore.
This peace for us is secured, by the work done by The Lord,
And the only part left for us, is to place in The Lord our trust,
Then with a loving nod, Christ sends to us the peace of God,
A peace into a believer’s heart, that from God will not depart.
Peace always there for those, keeping eyes on He who rose,
Who gave to them a new life, centered in the peace of Christ,
This as that believer lives, through the Spirit that Christ gives,
Providing them God’s peace, in their heart that will not cease.
(Copyright ©02/2008)
The Wanderer's Night-Song
THOU who comest from on high,
Who all woes and sorrows stillest,
Who, for twofold misery,
Hearts with twofold balsam fillest,
Would this constant strife would cease!
What are pain and rapture now?
Blissful Peace,
To my bosom hasten thou!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A Dead Astronomer
(Father Perry, S.J.)
Starry amorist, starward gone,
Thou art--what thou didst gaze upon!
Passed through thy golden garden's bars,
Thou seest the Gardener of the Stars.
She, about whose moon-ed brows
Seven stars make seven glows,
Seven lights for seven woes;
She, like thine own Galaxy,
All lustres in one purity:-
What said'st thou, Astronomer,
When thou did'st discover HER?
When thy hand its tube let fall,
Thou found'st the fairest Star of all!
poem by Francis Thompson
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For the restoration of my dear Husband from a burning Ague, June, 1661.
When feares and sorrowes me besett,
Then did'st thou rid me out;
When heart did faint and spirits quail,
Thou comforts me about.
Thou rais'st him vp I feard to loose,
Regau'st me him again:
Distempers thou didst chase away;
With strenght didst him sustain.
My thankfull heart, with Pen record
The Goodnes of thy God;
Let thy obedience testefye
He taught thee by his rod.
And with his staffe did thee support,
That thou by both may'st learn;
And 'twixt the good and evill way,
At last, thou mig'st discern.
Praises to him who hath not left
My Soul as destitute;
Nor turnd his ear away from me,
But graunted hath my Suit.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Deliverance from a Fit of Fainting
Worthy art Thou, O Lord, of praise,
But ah! It's not in me.
My sinking heart I pray Thee raise
So shall I give it Thee.
My life as spider's webb's cut off,
Thus fainting have I said,
And living man no more shall see
But be in silence laid.
My feeble spirit Thou didst revive,
My doubting Thou didst chide,
And though as dead mad'st me alive,
I here a while might 'bide.
Why should I live but to Thy praise?
My life is hid with Thee.
O Lord, no longer be my days
Than I may fruitful be.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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To Thee Thou Hast Drawn My Love
To Thee Thou hast drawn my love, O Fakir!
I was sleeping in my own chamber,
and Thou didst awaken me;
striking me with Thy voice, O Fakir!
I was drowning in the deeps of the ocean of this world, and
Thou didst save me: upholding me with Thine arm, O Fakir!
Only one word and no second-
and Thou hast made me tear off all
my bonds, O Fakir!
Kabîr says, 'Thou hast united Thy heart to my heart, O Fakir! '
Sonnet: In Strife, My Soul for God Truly Athirsts
When intense strife afills my heart with woes,
And problems of all sorts dullens my mind,
And supervenes insomnia by foes,
In God and prayer, solace I still find.
When things don’t happen timely when I want,
Immersed in grief, my heart seems wounded much,
With solutions eluding, think I can’t,
I plead and long for Maker’s magic touch.
When all seems lost in life on earth to me,
And not a person offers words of love,
In solitude, I suffer verily,
My only comfort is my God above.
In strife, my soul for God truly athirsts;
When sin-forgiven, jubilantly bursts.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-25-2006
poem by John Celes
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A Christmas Carol
I.
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II.
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III.
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
IV.
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?
V.
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.
VI.
Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father's tears his child!
VII.
A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow's toil had won;
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
VIII.
Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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When I Am Frustrated
Today I am as frustrated as can be and I need The Lord to comfort me.
I need Christ’s Peace to fill my heart before my day can even start.
When my heart begins to well with fear I know my Lord is always near.
I need my focus to be on Him when my emotions begin to stir within.
All my times are in The Lord’s Hands even when I don’t understand.
As Satan sets me up for a fall, in The Lord I can rise above it all.
When in my life my heart is tried, I remember that for me Christ died.
When I begin my day with The Lord the peace to my heart is restored.
When things about me shift like sand, on The Eternal Rock I’ll stand.
He who gave me my very life will help me through this day of strife.
Christ helps me through every day, as I cast all my cares His way.
He is with me each day my friend, preparing me for the coming end.
Trials do come and trials go, but this life is temporal, this I know.
Home is where the heart is friend and this fallen world is not my end.
In my trials He helps me see that all this strife ceases in Eternity.
No more pain and no more strife, just a pure and perfect Eternal Life.
As I focus on Christ’s soon return a peace in my heart begins to churn.
And this is one that will not cease, as this my friend is Eternal Peace.
Then today’s frustration melts away, as I know I’m not here to stay.
For soon I will see His face as I’m raptured from this temporal place.
(Copyright ©10/2004)