A New Year's Plaint
In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
--TENNYSON.
The bells that lift their yawning throats
And lolling tongues with wrangling cries
Flung up in harsh, discordant notes,
As though in anger, at the skies,--
Are filled with echoings replete,
With purest tinkles of delight--
So I would have a something sweet
Ring in the song I sing to-night.
As when a blotch of ugly guise
On some poor artist's naked floor
Becomes a picture in his eyes,
And he forgets that he is poor,--
So I look out upon the night,
That ushers in the dawning year,
And in a vacant blur of light
I see these fantasies appear.
I see a home whose windows gleam
Like facets of a mighty gem
That some poor king's distorted dream
Has fastened in his diadem.
And I behold a throng that reels
In revelry of dance and mirth,
With hearts of love beneath their heels,
And in their bosoms hearts of earth.
O Luxury, as false and grand
As in the mystic tales of old,
When genii answered man's command,
And built of nothing halls of gold!
O Banquet, bright with pallid jets,
And tropic blooms, and vases caught
In palms of naked statuettes,
Ye can not color as ye ought!
For, crouching in the storm without,
I see the figure of a child,
In little ragged roundabout,
Who stares with eyes that never smiled--
And he, in fancy can but taste
The dainties of the kingly fare,
And pick the crumbs that go to waste
Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.
Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down--
The 'merry greeting' best appears
On loving lips that never drown
Its worth but in the wine of tears;
Go, close your coffers like your hearts,
And shut your hearts against the poor,
Go, strut through all your pretty parts
But take the 'Welcome' from your door.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Related quotes
If I were dead
'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'
The dear lips quiver'd as they spake,
And the tears brake
From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.
Poor Child, poor Child!
I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.
It is not true that Love will do no wrong.
Poor Child!
And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,
And of those words your full avengers make?
Poor Child, poor Child!
And now, unless it be
That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,
O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!
Poor Child!
poem by Coventry Patmore
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In Memoriam A. H. H.: 5. Sometimes I Hold it half a Sin
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Feast Of The Assumption
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead:
Thy Feast has fled;
My eyes are wet with tears unshed;
I bow my head;
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway
I bend my knee,
And, like a homesick child, I pray,
Mary, to thee.
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And, all the day -- since white-robed priest
In farthest East,
In dawn's first ray -- began the Feast,
I -- I the least --
Thy least, and last, and lowest child,
I called on thee!
Virgin! didst hear? my words were wild;
Didst think of me?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! The angels bright,
With wings as white
As a dream of snow in love and light,
Flashed on thy sight;
They shone like stars around thee, Queen!
I knelt afar --
A shadow only dims the scene
Where shines a star!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, beyond the sky,
Sweet, pure, and high,
The angel's song swept sounding by
Triumphantly;
And when such music filled thy ear,
Rose round thy throne,
How could I hope that thou wouldst hear
My far, faint moan?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
And all day long, where altars stand,
Or poor or grand,
A countless throng from every land,
With lifted hand,
Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale
In glad acclaim;
How couldst thou hear my lone lips wail
Thy sweet, pure name?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Alas! and no! Thou didst not hear
Nor bend thy ear,
To prayer of woe as mine so drear;
For hearts more dear
Hid me from hearing and from sight
This bright Feast-day;
Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night
I kneel and pray?
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set, the day is dead;
Thy Feast hath fled;
My eyes are wet with the tears I shed;
I bow my head;
Angels and altars hailed thee, Queen,
All day; ah! be
To-night what thou hast ever been --
A mother to me!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Thy queenly crown in angels' sight
Is fair and bright;
Ah! lay it down; for, oh! to-night
Its jeweled light
Shines not as the tender love-light shines,
O Mary! mild,
In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines
For poor, lost child!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway
Fore'er and aye
In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray
Lay it away.
Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above
Where angels are;
But, Mother! fold in thine arms of love
Thy child afar!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
Mary, I call! Wilt hear the prayer
My poor lips dare?
Yea! be to all a Queen most fair,
Crown, sceptre, bear!
But look on me with a mother's eyes
From heaven's bliss;
And waft to me from the starry skies
A mother's kiss!
Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead;
Her Feast has fled;
Can she forget the sweet blood shed,
The last words said
That evening -- 'Woman! behold thy Son!
Oh! priceless right,
Of all His children! The last, least one,
Is heard to-night.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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Money
When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Because a man is dead; I dared
Not speak to let this false world know.
Much have I thought of life, and seen
How poor men’s hearts are ever light;
And how their wives do hum like bees
About their work from morn till night.
So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,
And see the rich ones coldly frown—
Poor men, think I, need not go up
So much as rich men should come down.
When I had money, money, O!
My many friends proved all untrue;
But now I have no money, O!
My friends are real, though very few.
poem by William Henry Davies
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The Shadow Of The Cross
At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep
From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep,
An angel mused: "Is there good or ill
In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill
'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"
Through the streets of a city the angel sped;
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.
In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied
And humble faces hid hearts of pride.
Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold,
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.
Despairing, he cried, "After all these years
Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"
He found two waifs in an attic bare;
-- A single crust was their meagre fare --
One strove to quiet the other's cries,
And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes
As she kissed the child with a motherly air:
"I don't need mine, you can have my share."
Then the angel knew that the earthly cross
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss.
At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum
And men looked not for their Christ to come,
From the attic poor to the palace grand,
The King and the beggar went hand in hand.
poem by John McCrae
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Ring Out , Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Ther
God was living
The poor's hearts
Poor heart's
Poor hearts was
God's temple...
Poor suffering
form very very
Damage cotage..
God not living
There?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Indiscretion
RED tulip-buds last night caressed
The sacred ivory of her breast.
She met me, eager to divine
What gold-heart bud of hope was mine.
Nor eyes nor lips were strong to part
The close-curled petals round my heart;
The joy I knew no monarch knows,
Yet not a petal would unclose.
But, ah!--the tulip-buds, unwise,
Warmed with the sunshine of her eyes,
And by her soft breath glorified
Went mad with love and opened wide.
She saw their hearts, all golden-gay,
Laughed, frowned, and flung the flowers away.
Poor flowers, in Heaven as you were,
Why did you show your hearts to her?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Little Match Girl
It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"
When she left home she had slippers on;
But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.
For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street,
Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet.
So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;
And the child's heart felt cold and downcast,
For nobody had bought any matchea that day,
Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.
Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;
So in a corner between two houses she made bold
To take shelter from the violent storm.
Poor little waif! wishing to herself she'd never been born.
And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home
For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone
Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,
And to go home without pennies she was in dread.
The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;
While the passers-by for her had no care,
As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace,
While the cold wind blew in the match girl's face.
As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,
And no longer her strength could her uphold,
When an idea into her little head came:
She'd strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.
And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly,
And it helped to fill her heart with glee;
And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;
But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!
Her body was found half-covered with snow,
And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;
And many present let fall a burning tear
Because she was found dead on the last night of the year,
In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold -
But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.
But I hope the match girl's in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,
A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Sonnet -Blessed are the Poor on Earth
Let discontented men, learn from the poor,
Who smile despite the anguish in their hearts;
Hard-working all their lives for bread, succor;
Yet, struggling always to improve their lots.
No job is mean but honesty matters;
The vagaries of life tease them so much;
And scarcely clothed, that too in such tatters;
They wait with patience for God's magic touch.
Yet, all the while, their faces wear big smiles;
Their hearts are moved by beggar's cries for alms;
Barefoot in Rain or Sun, they walk the miles;
Their hearts are soft but roughened are their palms.
The Gates of Heaven are open to them;
Their poverty becomes their diadem.
poem by John Celes
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To Fannie
Write to thine eyes? Why, my poor pen
Quails at the unequal task;
I fear you don't appreciate
The mighty boon you ask.
Thine eyes, I know, oh! beautiful!
True poets would inspire;
But, dear, you should remember, that
I've not a poet's fire.
But still at thy request I call
My sleeping muse to me,
To write a sonnet to thine eyes-
Would it were worthy thee!
Tender and loving, soft and pure,
They pierce the heart of man;
And with the aid of Cupid's darts,
Maim all the hearts they can.
Bright as the stars in yonder sky,
They shine for all on earth:
So sad in sorrow, glad in joy,
And sparkling in their mirth.
They, like the eyes of the gazelle,
Gaze fondly where you love;
And who receives such gaze, esteems
Them angels from above.
Bright as the light of long-sought home
To pilgrims o'er earth's way,
Whose footsteps sore, have wandered far,
Through weary year and day.
The light of love, the light of truth,
From thy soft eyes e'er beam;
And from thy heart, so kind and true,
A host of virtues gleam.
Now if this sonnet, Fannie, dear,
Were written by a lover,
A thousand charms no doubt he'd see,
That I cannot discover.
poem by Mary Eliza Perine Tucker Lambert
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Care For One Another..
Look at the hearts only,
Beating inside punctually,
as the stars majestically,
One above other vertically,
Hearts are beating vibrantly.
One above the other in high rise,
hearts toil with no surprise,
as the galaxies and constellations,
Hearts are beating horizontally,
Few hearts in big space,
Many hearts in small place,
as the diamonds twinkle in space,
Hearts are found in the ocean,
Hearts are there in the mountains,
Hearts are loitering in the jungles,
Hearts are beating in places,
as the planted gems above us,
Daring hearts are weak,
Weaker hearts are strong,
Most hearts are healthy,
Run and work in safety,
A few suffer and are sickly,
Clogged with fat and heavy,
Rich and poor man's hearts,
Educated and uneducated hearts,
Good and evil hearts,
Agnostic and spiritual hearts,
Healthy and sick hearts,
Beat everywhere to show,
That we care for one another,
and we love one another,
as we look at the stars,
the stars look at our hearts.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Poor Boy
Never sing for my supper
I never help my neighbour
Never do what is proper
For my share of labour.
Im a poor boy
And Im a rover
Count your coins and
Throw them over my shoulder
I may grow older
Nobody knows
How cold it grows
And nobody sees
How shaky my knees
Nobody cares
How steep my stairs
And nobody smiles
If I cross their stiles.
Oh poor boy
So sorry for himself
Oh poor boy
So worried for his health.
You may say every day
Where will he stay tonight.
Never know what I came for
Seems that Ive forgotten
Never ask what I came for
Or how I was begotten.
Im a poor boy
And Im a ranger
Things I say
May seem stranger than sunday
Changing to monday.
Nobody knows
How cold it flows
And nobody feels
The worn down heels
Nobodys eyes
Make the skies
Nobody spreads
Their aching heads.
Oh poor boy
So worried for his life
Oh poor boy
So keen to take a wife.
Hes a mess but hell say yes
If you just dress in white.
Nobody knows
How cold it blows
And nobody sees
How shaky my knees
Nobody cares
How steep my stairs
And nobody smiles
If you cross their stiles.
Oh poor boy
So sorry for himself
Oh poor boy
So worried for his health.
You may say every day
Where will he stay tonight.
Oh poor boy
So worried for his life
Oh poor boy
So keen to take a wife.
Oh poor boy
So sorry for himself
Oh poor boy
So worried for his health
Oh poor boy.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Boatswain’s Song
A CHEER to keep our hearts up,
A cup to drown our tears,
And we'll talk of those who perished,
Our mates in former years.
The Betsey was a vessel
As tight as ship could be--
And we cheered to keep our hearts up,
As she tossed upon the sea.
Thro' one dark day we struggled
To stem the foaming tide;
Night came--the straining vessel
All helplessly did ride.
The storm was raging loudly,
The angry heavens did frown--
A cheer to keep your hearts up--
The Betsey, she went down!
The morning broke which many
Might never see again,
And thick and blind and heavy
Came down the drenching rain
We got the smallest boat out,
Jack, Tom, and I, and gave
A cheer to keep our hearts up,
As we toiled against the wave.
Three days we struggled onward,
Without a sight of land;
And we grew so faint and failing,
We could scarcely bear a hand.
It's a bitter thing to battle
With the ocean for your foe:
We cheered to keep our hearts up,
But the cheer was hoarse and low.
Then we thought, with sinking spirits,
Of the shore we'd never see:
Tom wept, and thought of Mary--
Jack talked of home with me.
Each brawny arm grew fainter,
The boat was thinly stored:
A cheer to keep your hearts up--
Poor Jack went overboard!
At last, somehow we landed
Where the cliff was steep and high;
We told Jack's poor old mother,
(We were too much men to cry.)
They'd ha' liked to see me Boatswain,
The Betsey's gallant crew.
Come, a cheer to keep our hearts up,
We shall all of us die too.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Mary
DEAR honored name, beloved for human ties,
But loved and honored first that One was given
In living proof to erring mortal eyes
That our poor earth is near akin to heaven.
Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace,
And born of our kind advocate above;
And one by memory linked to that dear face
That blessed my childhood with its mother-love,
And taught me first the simple prayer, 'To thee,
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries.'
Through mist of years, those words recall to me
A childish face upturned to loving eyes.
And yet to some the name of Mary bears
No special meaning and no gracious power;
In that dear word they seek for hidden snares,
As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower.
But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears,
The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth;
Which to the upturned trusting face appears
A more than angel, though of human birth.
The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night
The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow;
So unseen God still lets His promised light,
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Licia Sonnets 05
Love with her hair my love by force hath tied,
To serve her lips, her eyes, her voice, her hand;
I smiled for joy, when I the boy espied
To lie unchained and live at her command.
She if she look, or kiss, or sing, or smile,
Cupid withal doth smile, doth sing, doth kiss,
Lips, hands, voice, eyes, all hearts that may beguile,
Because she scorns all hearts but only this.
Venus for this in pride began to frown
That Cupid, born a god, enthralled should be.
She in disdain her pretty son threw down,
And in his place, with love she chainéd me.
So now, sweet love, though I myself be thrall,
Not her a goddess, but thyself I call.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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The Next Great World War!
the next great world war
is already being fought...
within... within the hearts
of the poor of all nations,
struggling to survive,
for food and shelter.
in the hearts of the jobless,
the homeless, the sick.
in the hearts of prisoners,
of victims...
in the hearts of the takers,
the movers, the ones that make
the decisions, that hold
the key and the whip.
in the hearts of soldiers,
of politicians, of the innocents
killed by the bombing.
in the hearts of seekers,
of the lonely, the desperate.
in the hearts of the angry,
of the haters...
of priests, preachers, and moral guides.
in the hearts of the common,
in the hearts of the gifted,
in the hearts of the protesters,
and the cops that beat them.
in the hearts of all people everywhere,
crying out for change in spite of...
the war rages...
and who will stand
when the day is done?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet: Blessed Are The Poor On Earth
Let discontented men, learn from the poor,
Who smile despite the anguish in their hearts;
Hard-working all their lives for bread, succor;
Yet, struggling always to improve their lots.
No job is mean but honesty matters;
The vagaries of life tease them so much;
And scarcely clothed, that too in such tatters,
They wait with patience for God's magic touch.
Yet, all the while, their faces wear big smiles;
Their hearts are moved by beggar's cries for alms;
Barefoot in Rain or Sun, they walk the miles;
Their hearts are soft but roughened are their palms.
The Gates of Heaven are open to them;
Their poverty becomes their diadem.
6-14-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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Three Words
Three laconic words I love you enshroud
The hearts of those of dead love
Angels whom hide behind love's cloud
Below here on earth from up above
Each line a line in their ivory dipped wings
I love you I love you captivate
Thine hearts of hearts the angels sing
As our hearts draw close and gravitate
Dead words in dead song the poet grieves
At the grave of love of dead grizzled white
To resurrect thee with I love you he believes
In love, every love, love at first sight
As the clouds, separate and light shine through
All hearts eyes gaze and learn
It's true, it's true
In the words I love you we burn….
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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