Doubting
A Brother wandered forth with me,
Beside a barren beach:
He harped on things beyond the sea,
And out of reach.
He hinted once of unknown skies,
And then I would not hark,
But turned away from steadfast eyes,
Into the dark.
And said — “an ancient faith is dead
And wonder fills my mind:
I marvel how the blind have led
So long the blind.
“Behold this truth we only know
That night is on the land!
And we a weary way must go
To find God’s hand.”
I wept — “Our fathers told us, Lord,
That Thou wert kind and just,
But lo! our wailings fly abroad
For broken trust.
“How many evil ones are here
Who mocking go about,
Because we are too faint with fear
To wrestle Doubt!
“Thy riddles are beyond the ken
Of creatures of the sod:
Remember that we are but men,
And Thou art God!
“O, doting world, methinks your stay
Is weaker than a reed!
Our Father turns His face away;
‘Tis dark indeed.”
The evening woods lay huddled there,
All wrapped in silence strange:
A sudden wind — and lo! the air
Was filled with change.
“Your words are wild,” my brother said,
“For God’s voice fills the breeze;
Go — hide yourself, as Adam did,
Amongst the trees.
“I pluck the shoes from off my feet,
But dare to look around;
Behold,” he said, “my Lord I greet,
On holy ground!”
And God spake through the wind to me —
“Shake off that gloom of Fear,
You fainting soul who could not see
That I was near.
“Why vex me crying day and night? —
You call on me to hark!
But when I bless your world with light,
Who makes it dark?
“Is there a ravelled riddle left
That you would have undone?
What other doubts are there to sift?”
I answered — “None.”
“My son, look up, if you would see
The Promise on your way,
And turn a trustful face to me.”
I whispered — “Yea.”
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Why dost thou Shade thy Lovely Face?
1 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? Oh, why
2 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny
3 The sunshine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
4 Without that light, what light remains in me?
5 Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
6 I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
7 Thou art mv life; if thou but turn away
8 My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
9 Without thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray.
10 My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
11 Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night.
12 My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.
13 Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly:
14 Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
15 Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.
16 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
17 To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
18 But to the light? and who's that light but thee?
19 My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
20 I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
21 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
22 Oh, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
23 Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
24 But life? and where is life but in thine eye?
25 And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
26 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me;
27 Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try'st me?
28 Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
29 Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou think'st no eye
30 Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
31 If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
32 Let me behold and die, for my desire
33 Is ph{oe}nix-like to perish in that fire.
34 Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee;
35 If I am dead, Lord, set death's prisoner free;
36 Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?
37 If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
38 My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
39 Oh, what's thy light the less for lighting mine?
40 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
41 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
42 Lord, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?
43 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
44 The dead man's life; on thee my hopes rely;
45 If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.
46 Disclose thy sunbeams; close thy wings, and stay;
47 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
48 O thou, that art my light, my life, my way.
poem by Francis Quarles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Trinitas
At morn I prayed, 'I fain would see
How Three are One, and One is Three;
Read the dark riddle unto me.'
I wandered forth, the sun and air
I saw bestowed with equal care
On good and evil, foul and fair.
No partial favor dropped the rain;
Alike the righteous and profane
Rejoiced above their heading grain.
And my heart murmured, 'Is it meet
That blindfold Nature thus should treat
With equal hand the tares and wheat?'
A presence melted through my mood,--
A warmth, a light, a sense of good,
Like sunshine through a winter wood.
I saw that presence, mailed complete
In her white innocence, pause to greet
A fallen sister of the street.
Upon her bosom snowy pure
The lost one clung, as if secure
From inward guilt or outward lure.
'Beware!' I said; 'in this I see
No gain to her, but loss to thee
Who touches pitch defiled must be.'
I passed the haunts of shame and sin,
And a voice whispered, 'Who therein
Shall these lost souls to Heaven's peace win?
'Who there shall hope and health dispense,
And lift the ladder up from thence
Whose rounds are prayers of penitence?'
I said, 'No higher life they know;
These earth-worms love to have it so.
Who stoops to raise them sinks as low.'
That night with painful care I read
What Hippo's saint and Calvin said;
The living seeking to the dead!
In vain I turned, in weary quest,
Old pages, where (God give them rest!)
The poor creed-mongers dreamed and guessed.
And still I prayed, 'Lord, let me see
How Three are One, and One is Three;
Read the dark riddle unto me!'
Then something whispered, 'Dost thou pray
For what thou hast? This very day
The Holy Three have crossed thy way.
'Did not the gifts of sun and air
To good and ill alike declare
The all-compassionate Father's care?
'In the white soul that stooped to raise
The lost one from her evil ways,
Thou saw'st the Christ, whom angels praise!
'A bodiless Divinity,
The still small Voice that spake to thee
Was the Holy Spirit's mystery!
'O blind of sight, of faith how small!
Father, and Son, and Holy Call
This day thou hast denied them all!
'Revealed in love and sacrifice,
The Holiest passed before thine eyes,
One and the same, in threefold guise.
'The equal Father in rain and sun,
His Christ in the good to evil done,
His Voice in thy soul;--and the Three are One!'
I shut my grave Aquinas fast;
The monkish gloss of ages past,
The schoolman's creed aside I cast.
And my heart answered, 'Lord, I see
How Three are One, and One is Three;
Thy riddle hath been read to me!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Dark Lord
The Dark Lord
Only where the summer fails
With wilderness around
Only where the shadow sails
And the wind there makes no sound
Only where the light of day
Pierced seldom from the sky
Is where you find a grey faced man
Whose age deceives the eye
His image is not young or old
He looks up to the sky
He tells you of dark stories told
Dark lands which howl and cry
And evil thoughts
From evil minds
In evil lands
The dark one’s rise
Shrink back in fear their power unfolds
Dark faces creep for distant holds
No one yet could check the rise
Of one dark lord and his darkest ties
His shadow covers every land
From tree to dale
From dale to sand
Under the wing of his dark veil
His servants serve and never fail
Too late, you see it now through his disguise
This mans the dark lord darkness fills the skies
poem by Stephen Holland
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Foreshadowings
FIFTEEN miles and then the harbour! Here we cannot choose but stand,
Faces thrust towards the day-break, listening for our native land!
Close-reefed topsails shuddering over, straining down the groaning mast;
For a tempest cleaves the darkness, hissing, howling, shrieking past!
Lo! the air is flecked with stormbirds, and their melancholy wail
Lends a tone of deeper pathos to the melancholy gale!
Whilst away they wheel to leeward, leaving in their rapid flight
Wind and water grappling wildly through the watches of the night.
Yesterday we both were happy; but my soul is filled with change,
And I’m sad, my gallant comrade, with foreshadowings vague and strange!
Dear old place, are we so near you? Like to one that speaks in sleep,
I’m talking, thinking wildly o’er this moaning, maddened deep!
Much it makes me marvel, brother, that such thoughts should linger nigh
Now we know what shore is hidden somewhere in that misty sky!
Oh! I even fear to see it; and I’ve never felt so low
Since we turned our faces from it, seven weary years ago.
Have you faith at all in omens? Fits of passion I have known
When it seemed in crowded towns as if I walked the Earth alone!
And amongst my comrades often, o’er the lucent, laughing sea,
I have felt like one that drifteth on a dark and dangerous lee!
As a man who, crossing waters underneath a moony night,
Knows there will be gloomy weather if a cloudrack bounds the light,
So I hold, when Life is splendid, and our hopes are new and warm,
We can sometimes, looking forward, see the shade and feel the storm.
When you called me I was dreaming that this thunder raged no more,
And we travelled, both together, on a calm, delightful shore;
That we went along rejoicing, for I thought I heard you say,
“Now we soon shall see them, brother—now our fears have passed away!”
Pleasant were those deep green wild-woods; and we hurried, like a breeze,
Till I saw a distant opening through the porches of the trees;
And our village faintly gleaming past the forest and the stream;
But we wandered sadly through it with the Spirit of my Dream.
Why was our delight so fickle? Was it well while there to mourn;
When the loved—the loving, crowding, came to welcome our return?
In my vision, once so glorious, did we find that aught was changed;
Or that ONE whom WE remembered was forgotten or estranged?
Through a mist of many voices, listening for sweet accents fled,
Heard we hints of lost affection, or of gentle faces dead?
No! but on the quiet dreamscape came a darkness like a pall
And a ghostly shadow, brother, fell and rested over all.
Talking thus my friend I fronted, and in trustful tones he spake—
“I have long been waiting, watching here to see the morning break;
Now behold the bright fulfilment! Did my Spirit yearn in vain;
And amidst this holy splendour can a moody heart remain?
Let them pass, those wayward fancies! Waking thoughts return with sleep;
And they mingle strangely sometimes, while we lie in slumber deep;
But, believe me, dreams are nothing. If unto His creatures weak
God should whisper of the Future, not in riddles will He speak.”
Since he answered I have rested, for his brave words fell like balm;
And we reached the land in daylight, and the tempest died in calm;
Though the sounds of gusty fragments of a faint and broken breeze
Still went gliding with the runnels, gurgling down the spangled leas!
So we turned and travelled onward, till we rested at a place
Where a Vision fell about us, sunned with many a lovely face;
Then we heard low silvery voices; and I knelt upon the shore—
Knelt and whispered, “God I thank Thee! and will wander never more.”
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whenever I Say Your Name
Whenever I say your name, whenever I call to mind your face
Whatever bread's in my mouth, whatever the sweetest wine that I taste
Whenever your memory feeds my soul, whatever got broken becomes whole
Whenever I'm filled with doubts that we will be together
Wherever I lay me down, wherever I put my head to sleep
Whenever I hurt and cry, whenever I got to lie awake and weep
Whenever I kneel to pray, whenever I need to find a way
I'm calling out your name
Whenever those dark clouds hide the moon
Whenever this world has gotten so strange
I know that something's gonna change
Something's gonna change
Whenever I say your name, Whenever I say your name, I'm already praying, I'm already praying
I'm already filled with a joy that I can't explain
Wherever I lay me down, wherever I rest my weary head to sleep
Whenever I hurt and cry, whenever I got to lie awake and weep
Whenever I'm on the floor
Whatever it was that I believed before
Whenever I say your name, whenever I say it loud, I'm already praying
Whenever this world has got me down, whenever I shed a tear
Whenever the TV makes me mad, whenever I'm paralyzed with fear
Whenever those dark clouds fill the sky, whenever I lose the reason why
Whenever I'm filled with doubts that we will be together
Whenever the sun refuse to shine, whenever the skies are pouring rain
Whatever I lost I thought was mine whenever I close my eyes in pain
Whenever I kneel to pray, whenever I need to find a way
I'm calling out your name
Whenever this dark begins to fall
Whenever I'm vulnerable and small
Whenever I feel like I could die
Whenever I'm holding back the tears that I cry
Whenever I say your name, w
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Song of the Pilgrims
(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)
What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on the wind,
Thy hidden face beyond the west,
These things have called us; on a quest
Older than any road we trod,
More endless than desire. . . .
Far God,
Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fills
The soul with longing for dim hills
And faint horizons! For there come
Grey moments of the antient dumb
Sickness of travel, when no song
Can cheer us; but the way seems long;
And one remembers. . . .
Ah! the beat
Of weary unreturning feet,
And songs of pilgrims unreturning! . . .
The fires we left are always burning
On the old shrines of home. Our kin
Have built them temples, and therein
Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell
In little houses lovable,
Being happy (we remember how!)
And peaceful even to death. . . .
O Thou,
God of all long desirous roaming,
Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,
And crying after lost desire.
Hearten us onward! as with fire
Consuming dreams of other bliss.
The best Thou givest, giving this
Sufficient thing - to travel still
Over the plain, beyond the hill,
Unhesitating through the shade,
Amid the silence unafraid,
Till, at some sudden turn, one sees
Against the black and muttering trees
Thine altar, wonderfully white,
Among the Forests of the Night.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1907)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song of the Pilgrims, The
(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)
What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on the wind,
Thy hidden face beyond the west,
These things have called us; on a quest
Older than any road we trod,
More endless than desire. . . .
Far God,
Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fills
The soul with longing for dim hills
And faint horizons! For there come
Grey moments of the antient dumb
Sickness of travel, when no song
Can cheer us; but the way seems long;
And one remembers. . . .
Ah! the beat
Of weary unreturning feet,
And songs of pilgrims unreturning! . . .
The fires we left are always burning
On the old shrines of home. Our kin
Have built them temples, and therein
Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell
In little houses lovable,
Being happy (we remember how!)
And peaceful even to death. . . .
O Thou,
God of all long desirous roaming,
Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,
And crying after lost desire.
Hearten us onward! as with fire
Consuming dreams of other bliss.
The best Thou givest, giving this
Sufficient thing -- to travel still
Over the plain, beyond the hill,
Unhesitating through the shade,
Amid the silence unafraid,
Till, at some sudden turn, one sees
Against the black and muttering trees
Thine altar, wonderfully white,
Among the Forests of the Night.
poem by Rupert Brooke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Watcher on the Tower
I
The Voice of a Man
WHAT of the Night, O Watcher?
The Voice of a Woman
Yea, what of it?
The Watcher
A star has risen; and a wind blows strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
But God is there above it.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
II
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Night of sorrow!
The Watcher
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
Have courage! There’s To-morrow!
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
III
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Is it other?
The Watcher
I see a gleam; a thorn of light; a thong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
The Morning comes, my Brother.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
IV
Voice of the Man
What now, what now, O Watcher?
The Watcher
Red as slaughter
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night was long.—What sayest thou, my Daughter?
Voice of the Woman
The Night was dark; the Night was dark and long.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Loneliness
Now it is Loneliness who comes at night
Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.
Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,
I watch her softly blowing out the light.
Motionless sitting, neither left or right
She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.
She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.
So, with the laurel she is garlanded.
Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide
Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.
A strange wind flows... then silence. I am fain
To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,
Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land
Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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The Blind Caravan
1 I am a slave, both dumb and blind,
2 Upon a journey dread;
3 The iron hills lie far behind,
4 The seas of mist ahead.
5 Amid a mighty caravan
6 I toil a sombre track,
7 The strangest road since time began,
8 Where no foot turneth back.
9 Here rosy youth at morning's prime
10 And weary man at noon
11 Are crooked shapes at eventime
12 Beneath the haggard moon.
13 Faint elfin songs from out the past
14 Of some lost sunset land
15 Haunt this grim pageant drifting, vast,
16 Across the trackless sand.
17 And often for some nightward wind
18 We stay a space and hark,
19 Then leave the sunset lands behind,
20 And plunge into the dark.
21 Somewhere, somewhere, far on in front,
22 There strides a lonely man
23 Who is all strength, who bears the brunt,
24 The battle and the ban.
25 I know not of his face or form,
26 His voice or battle-scars,
27 Or how he fronts the haunted storm
28 Beneath the wintry stars;
29 I know not of his wisdom great
30 That leads this sightless host
31 Beyond the barren hills of fate
32 Unto some kindlier coast.
33 But often 'mid the eerie black
34 Through this sad caravan
35 A strange, sweet thrill is whispered back,
36 Borne on from man to man.
37 A strange, glad joy that fills the night
38 Like some far marriage horn,
39 Till every heart is filled with light
40 Of some belated morn.
41 The way is long, and rough the road,
42 And bitter the night, and dread,
43 And each poor slave is but a goad
44 To lash the one ahead.
45 Evil the foes that lie in wait
46 To slay us in the pass,
47 Bloody the slaughter at the gate,
48 And bleak the wild morass;
49 And I am but a shriveled thing
50 Beneath the midnight sky;
51 A wasted, wan remembering
52 Of days long wandered by.
53 And yet I lift my sightless face
54 Toward the eerie light,
55 And tread the lonely way we trace
56 Across the haunted night.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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To His Mistress
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life-if thou but turn away
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-
Without.thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art-without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:
To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
But to that light?-and who's that light but thee?
If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?
My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;
I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;
Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me!
And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me!
Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?
Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely:
If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!
-O thou art my life, my light, my way!
Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey, my wings shall be
Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!
poem by Lord John Wilmot
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Thou dark stormy Night
All alone in the night
All alone with my own fright
A lightning strikes, runs across the dead black sky
I am alone
but I wonder, why?
In Thou dark stormy night
In Thou dark stormy night
I call your name with all my might
All alone hanging in the night
My arms are sore, my soul is light
I hear the thunder, in the cloudy black sky
I am scared
but I don't know, why?
In Thou dark stormy night
in Thou dark stormy night
I call your name with all my might
Inside Your house in the night
Calling Your name with all my might
Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me?
'You must die so my people can be free.'
In Thou dark stormy night
In Thou dark stormy night
Jesus drew his final breath
Saving us all from our own eternal death
poem by Summer Song
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fainting by the Way
Swarthy wastelands, wide and woodless, glittering miles and miles away,
Where the south wind seldom wanders and the winters will not stay;
Lurid wastelands, pent in silence, thick with hot and thirsty sighs,
Where the scanty thorn-leaves twinkle with their haggard, hopeless eyes;
Furnaced wastelands, hunched with hillocks, like to stony billows rolled,
Where the naked flats lie swirling, like a sea of darkened gold;
Burning wastelands, glancing upward with a weird and vacant stare,
Where the languid heavens quiver o'er red depths of stirless air!
'Oh, my brother, I am weary of this wildering waste of sand;
In the noontide we can never travel to the promised land!
Lo! the desert broadens round us, glaring wildly in my face,
With long leagues of sunflame on it, - oh! the barren, barren place!
See, behind us gleams a green plot, shall we thither turn and rest
Till a cold wind flutters over, till the day is down the west?
I would follow, but I cannot! Brother, let me here remain,
For the heart is dead within me, and I may not rise again.'
'Wherefore stay to talk of fainting? - rouse thee for awhile, my friend;
Evening hurries on our footsteps, and this journey soon will end.
Wherefore stay to talk of fainting, when the sun, with sinking fire,
Smites the blocks of broken thunder, blackening yonder craggy spire?
Even now the far-off landscape broods and fills with coming change,
And a withered moon grows brighter bending o'er that shadowed range;
At the feet of grassy summits sleeps a water calm and clear -
There is surely rest beyond it! Comrade, wherefore tarry here?
'Yet a little longer struggle; we have walked a wilder plain,
And have met more troubles, trust me, than we e'er shall meet again!
Can you think of all the dangers you and I are living through
With a soul so weak and fearful, with the doubts ~I~ never knew?
Dost thou not remember that the thorns are clustered with the rose,
And that every Zin-like border may a pleasant land enclose?
Oh, across these sultry deserts many a fruitful scene we'll find,
And the blooms we gather shall be worth the wounds they leave behind!'
'Ah, my brother, it is useless! See, o'erburdened with their load,
All the friends who went before us fall or falter by the road!
We have come a weary distance, seeking what we may not get,
And I think we are but children, chasing rainbows through the wet.
Tell me not of vernal valleys! Is it well to hold a reed
Out for drowning men to clutch at in the moments of their need?
Go thy journey on without me; it is better I should stay,
Since my life is like an evening, fading, swooning fast away!
'Where are all the springs you talked of? Have I not with pleading mouth
Looked to Heaven through a silence stifled in the crimson drouth?
Have I not, with lips unsated, watched to see the fountains burst,
Where I searched the rocks for cisterns? And they only mocked my thirst!
Oh, I dreamt of countries fertile, bright with lakes and flashing rills
Leaping from their shady caverns, streaming round a thousand hills!
Leave me, brother, all is fruitless, barren, measureless, and dry,
And my God will ~never~ help me though I pray, and faint, and die!'
'Up! I tell thee this is idle! Oh, thou man of little faith!
Doubting on the verge of Aidenn, turning now to covet death!
By the fervent hopes within me, by the strength which nerves my soul,
By the heart that yearns to help thee, we shall live and reach the goal!
Rise and lean thy weight upon me. Life is fair, and God is just,
And He yet will show us fountains, if we only look and trust!
Oh, I know it, and He leads us to the glens of stream and shade,
Where the low, sweet waters gurgle round the banks which cannot fade!'
Thus he spake, my friend and brother! and he took me by the hand,
And I think we walked the desert till the night was on the land;
Then we came to flowery hollows, where we heard a far-off stream
Singing in the moony twilight, like the rivers of my dream.
And the balmy winds came tripping softly through the pleasant trees,
And I thought they bore a murmur like a voice from sleeping seas.
So we travelled, so we reached it, and I never more will part
With the peace, as calm as sunset, folded round my weary heart.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Written At Sea
What is my quarrel with thee, beautiful sea,
That thus I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or hear thy voice but it tormenteth me?
Why do I hate thee, who art beautiful
Beyond all beauty, when the nights are cool,
And the stars fade because the moon is full?
Why do I hate thee? Thou art new and young,
And life is thine for loving, and thy tongue
Hath tones that I have known and loved and sung.
Thou hast a smile which would my smiling greet;
Thy brave heart beateth as my own doth beat,
And thou hast tears which should be true and sweet.
Thou art a creature, strong and fair and brave,
Such as I might have given the world to have
And love and cherish;--and thou art my slave.
I have my home in thee. Thy arms enfold
Me all night long, and I am rocked and rolled,
And thou art never weary of thy hold.
Thou art a woman in thy constancy,
And worthy better love than mine could be;
And yet, behold, I cannot suffer thee.
If thou wert dumb; if thou wert like the sky,
Which has not learned to speak our misery
In any voice less rude than the wind's cry;
If thou wert wholly young and didst not know
The secret of our ancient human woe,
Or if thou knewest it wholly as I know;
Or yet if thou wert old with all these years;
If thou wert dull to hopes and loves and fears;
If thou wert blind and couldst not see our tears;
If thou wert bounded by some rocky shore,
And hadst not given thyself thus wholly o'er
To our poor single selves with all thy store;
If thou wert not in thy immensity,
A single circle circling with the sky,
Where we must still be centres changelessly;
If thou wert other than thou art; alas,
If thou wert not of water, but a mass
Of formless earth, a waveless plain of grass;
If thou wert shapeless as the mountains are;
If thou wert clad in some discordant wear;
If thou wert not so blue and trim and fair;
If thou wert decked with towns and villages;
If there was heard, across the silent seas,
The music of church bells upon the breeze;
If thou wert this; or if thou wert not near,
But I could only sit apart and hear
The beating of thy waves, and find it drear,
But wild and quite unknown, and far from me;
Sea, if thou couldst no longer be the sea,
Then I could love thee as thou lovest me.
If thou wouldst have me love thee, beautiful sea,
Build up a wall of dark 'twixt thee and me;
Let me not see thee; call the night to thee.
League with the winds; rise up, and send them driven
To roll mad clouds about thy back at even.
Make thee a desolation of the heaven.
Thou shouldst compel me, with thy angry voice,
To choose 'twixt death and thee; and, at the choice,
If my cheek grew not pale, thou might'st rejoice,
And I might love thee, oh thou monstrous sea;
But now I cannot love thy waves or thee,
Or bear thy beauty in my misery.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Litany
FIRST ANTIPHONE.
ALL the bright lights of heaven
I will make dark over thee;
One night shall be as seven
That its skirts may cover thee;
I will send on thy strong men a sword,
On thy remnant a rod;
Ye shall know that I am the Lord,
Saith the Lord God.
SECOND ANTIPHONE.
All the bright lights of heaven
Thou hast made dark over us;
One night has been as seven
That its skirt might cover us;
Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword,
On our remnant a rod;
We know that thou art the Lord,
O Lord our God.
THIRD ANTIPHONE.
As the tresses and wings of the wind
Are scattered and shaken,
I will scatter all them that have sinned,
There shall none be taken;
As a sower that scattereth seed,
So will I scatter them;
As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,
I will break and shatter them.
FOURTH ANTIPHONE.
As the wings and the locks of the wind
Are scattered and shaken,
Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned,
There was no man taken;
As a sower that scattereth seed,
So hast thou scattered us;
As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,
Thou hast broken and shattered us.
FIFTH ANTIPHONE.
From all thy lovers that love thee
I God will sunder thee;
I will make darkness above thee,
And thick darkness under thee;
Before me goeth a light,
Behind me a sword;
Shall a remnant find grace in my sight?
I am the Lord.
SIXTH ANTIPHONE.
From all our lovers that love us
Thou God didst sunder us;
Thou madest darkness above us,
And thick darkness under us;
Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light,
And made ready thy sword;
Let a remnant find grace in thy sight,
We beseech thee, O Lord.
SEVENTH ANTIPHONE.
Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment
For sins on this wise?
For the glittering of raiment
And the shining of eyes,
For the painting of faces
And the sundering of trust,
For the sins of thine high places
And delight of thy lust?
For your high things ye shall have lowly,
Lamentation for song;
For, behold, I God am holy,
I the Lord am strong;
Ye shall seek me and shall not reach me
Till the wine-press be trod;
In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me,
Saith the Lord God.
EIGHTH ANTIPHONE.
Not with fine gold for a payment,
But with coin of sighs,
But with rending of raiment
And with weeping of eyes,
But with shame of stricken faces
And with strewing of dust,
For the sin of stately places
And lordship of lust;
With voices of men made lowly,
Made empty of song,
O Lord God most holy,
O God most strong,
We reach out hands to reach thee
Ere the wine-press be trod;
We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee,
O Lord our God.
NINTH ANTIPHONE.
In that hour thou shalt say to the night,
Come down and cover us;
To the cloud on thy left and thy right,
Be thou spread over us;
A snare shall be as thy mother,
And a curse thy bride;
Thou shalt put her away, and another
Shall lie by thy side.
Thou shalt neither rise up by day
Nor lie down by night;
Would God it were dark! thou shalt say;
Would God it were light!
And the sight of thine eyes shall be made
As the burning of fire;
And thy soul shall be sorely afraid
For thy soul’s desire.
Ye whom your lords loved well,
Putting silver and gold on you,
The inevitable hell
Shall surely take hold on you;
Your gold shall be for a token,
Your staff for a rod;
With the breaking of bands ye are broken,
Saith the Lord God.
TENTH ANTIPHONE.
In our sorrow we said to the night,
Fall down and cover us;
To the darkness at left and at right,
Be thou shed over us;
We had breaking of spirit to mother
And cursing to bride;
And one was slain, and another
Stood up at our side.
We could not arise by day,
Nor lie down by night;
Thy sword was sharp in our way,
Thy word in our sight;
The delight of our eyelids was made
As the burning of fire;
And our souls became sorely afraid
For our soul’s desire.
We whom the world loved well,
Laying silver and gold on us,
The kingdom of death and of hell
Riseth up to take hold on us;
Our gold is turned to a token,
Our staff to a rod;
Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken,
O Lord our God.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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On A Sunday In 1997
Where two or more are gathered…
-can't sit still
Greetings and embrace, they assemble all together
Spiritually seeking, seeming so happy…
-feel so empty
Behold the brethren's holy gaze
-can't feel their grace
Share the same wisdom and understanding
-so many questions
Stand, shake hands to the left, to the right, sit, face forward and smile
-I'm screaming inside
We begin. He speaks with such authority of all that is holy…
-my ears, they fail me
'I get my needs met from the Lord'
feel so empty
'I am okay in Jesus'
feel so strange
'I am more than a conqueror'
feel so afraid
Preach unto me the light and the truth
Bless me with understanding that I might shine like all of you
barely at a crawl, but fear it won't be long…
Before these seams come undone
To mark my fall - backslidden, and gone
If I let them see
The who I am inside of me
The unraveling
The sinking…
Would they remain?
I've stopped asking…
'I get my needs met from the Lord'
not really
'I'm filled with the Holy Spirit'
my strength has left me
Take me home…tonight
that I might awaken to Your light
I don't like the who that I am inside of me,
don't know that I can walk through
another day
this way
'I rest my hope in Jesus'
feel so helpless
'I am sufficient in Him'
I have nothing and nothing do I have to give
'I'm filled with joy everlasting'
My heart won't stop breaking
'I'm alive in the Lord'
I wish I didn't exist
'I'm full of grace'
I fear the slaughter of my soul
poem by God Diaries
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Psalm 86
Thy gracious ear, O Lord, encline,
O hear me I thee pray,
For I am poor, and almost pine
With need, and sad decay.
Preserve my soul, for *I have trod Heb. I am good, loving,
Thy waies, and love the just, a doer of good and
Save thou thy servant O my God holy things
Who still in thee doth trust.
Pity me Lord for daily thee
I call; 4 O make rejoyce
Thy Servants Soul; for Lord to thee
I lift my soul and voice,
For thou art good, thou Lord art prone
To pardon, thou to all
Art full of mercy, thou alone
To them that on thee call.
Unto my supplication Lord
Give ear, and to the crie
Of my incessant praiers afford
Thy hearing graciously.
I in the day of my distress
Will call on thee for aid;
For thou wilt grant me free access
And answer, what I pray'd.
Like thee among the gods is none
O Lord, nor any works
Of all that other Gods have done
Like to thy glorious works.
The Nations all whom thou hast made
Shall come, and all shall frame
To bow them low before thee Lord,
And glorifie thy name.
For great thou art, and wonders great
By thy strong hand are done,
Thou in thy everlasting Seat
Remainest God alone.
Teach me O Lord thy way most right,
I in thy truth will hide,
To fear thy name my heart unite
So shall it never slide.
Thee will I praise O Lord my God
Thee honour, and adore
With my whole heart, and blaze abroad
Thy name for ever more.
For great thy mercy is toward me,
And thou hast free'd my Soul
Eev'n from the lowest Hell set free
From deepest darkness foul.
O God the proud against me rise
And violent men are met
To seek my life, and in their eyes
No fear of thee have set.
But thou Lord art the God most mild
Readiest thy grace to shew,
Slow to be angry, and art stil'd
Most mercifull, most true.
O turn to me thy face at length,
And me have mercy on,
Unto thy servant give thy strength,
And save thy hand-maids Son.
Some sign of good to me afford,
And let my foes then see
And be asham'd, because thou Lord
Do'st help and comfort me.
poem by John Milton
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Verses by Lady Geralda
Why, when I hear the stormy breath
Of the wild winter wind
Rushing o'er the mountain heath,
Does sadness fill my mind?
For long ago I loved to lie
Upon the pathless moor,
To hear the wild wind rushing by
With never ceasing roar;
Its sound was music then to me;
Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
And my whole soul rejoice.
But now, how different is the sound?
It takes another tone,
And howls along the barren ground
With melancholy moan.
Why does the warm light of the sun
No longer cheer my eyes?
And why is all the beauty gone
From rosy morning skies?
Beneath this lone and dreary hill
There is a lovely vale;
The purling of a crystal rill,
The sighing of the gale,
The sweet voice of the singing bird,
The wind among the trees,
Are ever in that valley heard;
While every passing breeze
Is loaded with the pleasant scent
Of wild and lovely flowers.
To yonder vales I often went
To pass my evening hours.
Last evening when I wandered there
To soothe my weary heart,
Why did the unexpected tear
From my sad eyelid start?
Why did the trees, the buds, the stream
Sing forth so joylessly?
And why did all the valley seem
So sadly changed to me?
I plucked a primrose young and pale
That grew beneath a tree
And then I hastened from the vale
Silent and thoughtfully.
Soon I was near my lofty home,
But when I cast my eye
Upon that flower so fair and lone
Why did I heave a sigh?
I thought of taking it again
To the valley where it grew.
But soon I spurned that thought as vain
And weak and childish too.
And then I cast that flower away
To die and wither there;
But when I found it dead today
Why did I shed a tear?
O why are things so changed to me?
What gave me joy before
Now fills my heart with misery,
And nature smiles no more.
And why are all the beauties gone
From this my native hill?
Alas! my heart is changed alone:
Nature is constant still.
For when the heart is free from care,
Whatever meets the eye
Is bright, and every sound we hear
Is full of melody.
The sweetest strain, the wildest wind,
The murmur of a stream,
To the sad and weary mind
Like doleful death knells seem.
Father! thou hast long been dead,
Mother! thou art gone,
Brother! thou art far away,
And I am left alone.
Long before my mother died
I was sad and lone,
And when she departed too
Every joy was flown.
But the world's before me now,
Why should I despair?
I will not spend my days in vain,
I will not linger here!
There is still a cherished hope
To cheer me on my way;
It is burning in my heart
With a feeble ray.
I will cheer the feeble spark
And raise it to a flame;
And it shall light me through the world,
And lead me on to fame.
I leave thee then, my childhood's home,
For all thy joys are gone;
I leave thee through the world to roam
In search of fair renown,
From such a hopeless home to part
Is happiness to me,
For nought can charm my weary heart
Except activity.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dream Of The Unknown
I dream of mostly nothing,
A deep black emptiness in space of infinate time.
But there is no time, there is nothing.
I see nothing, I touch nothing.
Am I even here? Do I exist? Where am I?
I'm not anywhere, just darkness all around.
I don't hear anything at all. I don't smell anything.
What kind of dream is this? This dream of the unknown.
It is not a dream. I'm not here, I am nothing.
Dreams are filled with things beyond imagination,
Filled with good things and bad things, but not this.
I am not happy nor am I sad...But I am scared.
Why am I scared? There is nothing here.
I am trembling but I don't feel a thing.
I'm not here, I am nothing just like this darkness.
But I am in fear in this dream of the unknown.
If it's a dream at all. Am I dead? Is that my fear?
If I'm dead, where is the afterlife? Were they right?
I see nothing, I feel nothing, I am nothing.
Fear is the only thing I know in this dream.
But why? If nothing is wrong, why is everything dark?
Why can't I dream? Why am I nothing with nothing around?
No time, no feeling, no sense. Just nothing.
Lost in this forsaken world, this dream of the unknown.
Suddenly, I'm crying. I feel tears stream down my face.
I feel my heart racing. I hear myself choke back cries.
But everything is still dark, everything is still nothing.
I don't understand. What is happening to me?
My eyes open, I'm in my bed. Face buried in my pillow.
I am still crying, I am still scared...I don't know why.
poem by Adam McKim
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Prayer For The Land
In this nation we can not afford, not to lift prayers to The Lord,
When all men lift up holy hands, to The Creator of all the lands.
To lift up prayers and supplication, to The God of our salvation.
As together men seek God’s face, to fill our land with His Grace.
Not only is He Sovereign Creator; as for many He is our Savior,
Who saved us out of the night, and filled us with His Holy Light.
And in Him we can put our trust, for His Spirit will empower us,
Helping to change wrong to right, as we share His saving Light.
But the change needs to start, not in the land, but in the heart,
In the heart of the humble man, who prays to God for our land.
Then with others lift to the Lord, humble prayers shore to shore.
Prayers that reach God’s Throne, about a land many call home.
This nation seen by many to be, a haven of freedom and liberty,
Is now being attacked from within, from a plague of evil and sin.
It’s changed so much from when; it was founded by Godly men.
Now many men face a daily plight, from all the evils of the night,
When the days become like night, filling men’s hearts with fright.
All the wicked evils of the night, have forced many into this plight,
Devastated by man’s dark iniquity; who oppose a God of eternity.
Only The Lord can shed His Light, upon their darkened evil blight,
In these increasing darker days, so these men change their ways.
For Only God can change within, hardened hearts racked by sin.
We need to lift our hands up high, to The One who rules the sky,
To pray that God returns sanity, back to our land from sea to sea.
God could again bless our land, if we only choose to understand,
We must repent and turn to Him, as we turn away from all our sin,
This land we’ve come to know, can and will not continue to grow,
If a moral climate is not restored, through the Mercy of The Lord.
We must return to God’s decrees, or our nation will cease to be,
And like The Roman Empire friend, we too will have a sorry end.