To John Johnson, On His Presenting Me With An Antique Bust Of Homer
Kinsman beloved, and as a son by me!
When I behold this fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee.
Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should be
Wise men and learned who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
With others scorn: critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou; -- like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
poem by William Cowper
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Hope in Heaven's Day
Grief be mine, I ask you so,
If not for you, I wouldn't know,
How life once was and then be still,
How so precious, that death do steal.
Because that grief, won't go away,
Learn to let it have its way.
The link to love, a precious one,
Is met with grief and still not done.
The days do come, and nights do go,
Grief will stay as time is so.
And so a loved one passes on,
And grief comes in and carries on.
Does grief get better, I will ask,
It's hard to say, while at its task.
There is grief to help us cope,
There is God to give us hope.
Grief will surely go away,
On that glorious heaven's day.
But while its here, there's just one thing,
Pray our Lord, for peace he'll bring.
poem by Arlene Dery
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My Tea Cup
O, thou look me as a cup of wine,
As the reflection of my soul shines,
Or a good poem with delicious lines,
What is thy like? But thou surely mine.
Thy every draught gives me pleasure,
As a drunkard finds in drinking hemlock,
And find from the world sometimes I leisure,
And feel so power to clash the rock.
O, thy tender fragrance runs inside of me,
And really gets my sorrows out,
Then I experience so much freshness and gee,
And compose what getting out sorrows shout.
As a parserby seeks relief under a shady tree,
Or a dolphin delights in only sea,
Or a lover enjoys to his beloved to see,
And I gain all happiness in only thee.
I feel proud when to thee in cup I hold,
On taking thee, beyond horizon I behold,
And thou dear to like precious gold,
After having thee, I feel more witty and bold.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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A Love Secret
Love has its secrets, joy has its revealings.
How shall I speak of that which love has hid?
If my beloved shall return to greet me,
Deeds shall be done for her none ever did.
My beloved loved me. How shall I reveal it?
We were alone that morning in the street.
She looked down at the ground, and blushed, and trembled.
She stopped me with her eyes when these did meet.
``What wouldst thou, sweet one? What wouldst thou with sorrow,
Thou, the new morning star with me, the night?
What are those flowers thou holdest to thy bosom?
What are the thoughts thou hidest from my sight?''
``Thine are these flowers,'' she said, ``these foolish roses,
And thine the thoughts, if thus it be thy will.
I hold them close for fear that thou shouldst mock me,
I hold them to my heart for fear of ill.''
``Nay, what of ill? 'Tis only age is evil,
Only forgetfulness and grief and pain;
What dost thou know of grief, that thou shouldst fear it?
Mine is the grief who cannot love again.''
She raised her eyes, she looked at me in wonder,
``The ache is here,'' she said, ``by night and day;
I cannot teach my heart to bear its burden,
I cannot turn my silence from its way.''
``Speak to me, child. I am thy wise physician,
A man acquainted with all grief can teach;
There is no sorrow but has joy for sister,
No silence but finds counterpart in speech.''
My beloved laughed. She saw through my dissembling;
She held to me her hand, that I might kiss,
The inside of her hand. 'Twas like a petal
Of her own roses, but more dear than this.
I felt its pulses, like a bird in prison;
``Sweet child,'' I said, ``what wouldst thou I should prove?
I cannot make thee wiser than thy wisdom,
Who knowest all things since thou knowest love.''
How shall I tell it? How shall I reveal it?
I led her by the hand, as thus I said,
Back from the street to where it stood, my dwelling,
And closed the door on where it stood, my bed.
Her laughter stopped. ``Nay, use not thou unkindly.
Thine is the hand to deal or spare the blame;
I dare not be to thee thus uninvited,
Thou dost not know me, hast not learned my name.''
How shall I tell it? How shall I reveal it?
Love in that instant found its latest birth,
``Soul of my soul,'' I cried, ``thy name is Pleasure,
The sweetest thing to love on this sad Earth.''
I held her in my arms, I pressed her fastly.
``Ah, if thou lovedst me indeed,'' she cried.
``I love thee, and I love thee,'' was my answer,
``My sister, my beloved one, my bride!''
Love has its secrets. Joy has its revealings.
I speak of this which love in vain has hid;
If my beloved shall return to greet me,
Deeds shall be done for her none ever did.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Soul That Loves God Finds Him Everywhere
O thou, by long experience tried,
Near whom no grief can long abide;
My love! how full of sweet content
I pass my years of banishment!
All scenes alike engaging prove
To souls impressed with sacred love
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in thee;
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.
To me remains nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.
While place we seek, or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But, with a God to guide our way,
'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Could I be cast where thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.
My country, Lord, art thou alone;
Nor other can I claim or own;
The point where all my wishes meet;
My law, my love, life's only sweet!
I hold by nothing here below;
Appoint my journey and I go;
Though pierced by scorn, oppressed by pride,
I feel thee good--feel nought beside.
No frowns of men can hurtful prove
To souls on fire with heavenly love;
Though men and devils both condemn,
No gloomy days arise from them.
Ah, then! to his embrace repair;
My soul, thou art no stranger there;
There love divine shall be thy guard,
And peace and safety thy reward.
poem by William Cowper
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Faith More Precious Than Gold
Although now, for a while,
Sore distressed by grievous trial,
And your love for your Lord may grow cold,
You are shielded by Him,
To His hope you’re born again,
And your faith is more precious than gold.
How intense is the fire
Of your grief and deep desire
And the pain of the sob of your soul;
Of God’s plan you’re afraid,
And by Him you feel betrayed,
But your faith is more precious than gold.
Though He slay, you can trust
Him who made you out of dust;
He is still the same God as of old.
Though you can’t see Him now,
Still you love Him anyhow
With your faith that’s more precious than gold.
God is now glorified
When in Him you still abide
And His fruit of endurance show bold.
You’re the work of His hand,
And on Him you must depend,
So your faith is more precious than gold.
You can greatly rejoice
In His name and in His choice
More like Jesus your being to mold.
So then run to the Lord,
To His side and to His Word;
Put to practice this faith more than gold.
When you flee thus in prayer
And experience His care,
Then the proof of your faith will be told.
Though some pain might remain,
You’ll thank God for all the rain,
For you’ll know your faith’s worth more than gold.
And this faith has an end
That you’ll better comprehend:
The salvation and life of your soul,
An inheritance sweet,
Bowing at your Savior’s feet,
Praising Him for this gift more than gold.
(Based on 1 Peter 1: 3-9)
poem by Edward A. Morris
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If grief for grief can touch thee
If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee--
And when the world despises--
When Heaven repels my prayer--
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again!
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Ballad XII
Ever blessed be the day,
Be the place and be the dwelling,
That hath ended my delay,
Shown the truth I shrank from telling.
Dear friend, behold
My love is yours, a costlier gift than gold :
To Love be praise, that first the bond hath knit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
Since I yielded to thy sway
When thy heart with grief was swelling,
Swiftly speeding as he may
Joy is come, my care dispelling :
Now am I bold
To give thee love, that guerdons manifold
May heal thee from thy sorrow every whit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
So my soul, with God for stay,
The new blissful years foretelling,
Finds in thee, for whom I pray,
Grace and gladness all excelling.
I that of old
Gave thee but sorry cheer and comfort cold,
Am straightway turned to serve thee, as is fit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
When I had told
My love, my heart was yours to have and hold :
To grief I yield not, nor to blame submit,
For I am filled with perfect joy from it.
poem by Christine de Pizan
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Too Dearly Had I Bought
Too dearly had I bought my green and youthful years,
If in mine age I could not find when craft for love appears;
And seldom though I come in court among the rest,
Yet can I judge in colors dim as deep as can the best.
Where grief torments the man that suff'reth secret smart,
To break it forth unto some friend it easeth well the heart.
So stands it now with me for my beloved friend:
This case is thine for whom I feel such torment of my mind,
And for thy sake I burn so in my secret breast
That till thou know my whole disease my heart can have no rest.
I see how thine abuse hath wrested so thy wits
That all it yields to thy desire, and follows thee by fits.
Where thou hast loved so long with heart and all thy power,
I see thee fed with feigned words, thy freedom to devour.
I know, though she say nay and would it well withstand,
When in her grace thou held the most, she bare thee but in hand.
I see her pleasant cheer in chiefest of thy suit;
When thou are gone I see him come, that gathers up the fruit.
And eke in thy respect I see the base degree
Of him to whom she gave the heart that promised was to thee.
I see, what would you more? stood never man so sure
On woman's word, but wisdom would mistrust it to endure
poem by Henry Howard
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The Thanksgiving
Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true,
To thee of all kings only due)
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee,
Who in all grief preventest me?
Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store
That all thy body was one door.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?
'Tis but to tell the tale is told.
'My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? '
Was such a grief as cannot be.
Shall I then sing, skipping, thy doleful story,
And side with thy triumphant glory?
Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower?
Thy rod, my posy? cross, my bower?
But how then shall I imitate thee, and
Copy thy fair, though bloody hand?
Surely I will revenge me on thy love,
And try who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore
All back unto thee by the poor.
If thou dost give me honour, men shall see,
The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or, if she be mine,
She and her children shall be thine.
My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name,
I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give
Unto some Chapel, die or live.
As for thy passion - But of that anon,
When with the other I have done.
For thy predestination I'll contrive,
That three years hence, if I survive,
I'll build a spittle, or mend common ways,
But mend mine own without delays.
Then I will use the works of thy creation,
As if I us'd them but for fashion.
The world and I will quarrel; and the year
Shall not perceive, that I am here.
My music shall find thee, and ev'ry string
Shall have his attribute to sing;
That all together may accord in thee,
And prove one God, one harmony.
If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear;
If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here.
Nay, I will read thy book, and never move
Till I have found therein thy love;
Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee,
O my dear Saviour, Victory!
Then for thy passion - I will do for that -
Alas, my God, I know not what.
poem by George Herbert
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My Name Is Jacob
Nay, I cannot let Thee go,
Till a blessing thou bestow;
Do not turn away thy face,
Mine's an urgent pressing case.
Dost thou ask me, who I am?
Ah, my Lord, thou know'st my name!
Yet the question gives a plea,
To support my suit with thee.
Thou didst once a wretch behold,
In rebellion blindly bold;
Scorn thy grace, thy pow'r defy,
That poor rebel, Lord, was I.
Once a sinner near despair,
Sought thy mercy-seat by prayer;
Mercy heard and set him free,
Lord, that mercy came to me,
Many years have passed since then,
Many changes I have seen;
Yet have been upheld till now,
Who could hold me up but thou?
Thou hast helped in every need,
This emboldens me to plead;
After so much mercy past,
Canst thou let me sink at last?
No -- I must maintain my hold,
'Tis thy goodness makes me bold;
I can no denial take,
When I plead for Jesu's sake.
poem by John Newton
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George Chapman:XI
HIGH priest of Homer, not elect in vain,
Deep trumpets blow before thee, shawms behind
Mix music with the rolling wheels that wind
Slow through the labouring triumph of thy train:
Fierce history, molten in thy forging brain,
Takes form and fire and fashion from thy mind,
Tormented and transmuted out of kind:
But howsoe’er thou shift thy strenuous strain,
Like Tailor1 smooth, like Fisher2 swollen, and now
Grim Yarrington3 scarce bloodier marked than thou,
Then bluff as Mayne’s4 or broad-mouthed Barry’s5 glee ,
Proud still with hoar predominance of brow
And beard like foam swept off the broad blown sea,
Where’er thou go, men’s reverence goes with thee.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Village Of Hopes And Dreams
As we all come upon a death of a certain loved one
We all grief in the same way with our heads down.
As we all lose the championship,
We all grief in the same way with our heads down.
As we all fail a test, of which we tried so hard on,
We grief in the same way with our heads down.
As we all walk in the rain the same, so sad
The mood of the storm changes us
We all grief in the same way with our heads down.
As we all cry the same with blood-shot eyes, hoping no one sees us,
We all grief in the same way with our heads down.
As we all pray to God that this pain will stop,
We never think what we’ve down for him.
As I have lost something so great,
I lift my head to the sky
Pray to God that he will bless me with the opportunity
Of doing better next time.
As I learned from my elders the way you walk can tell a lot about yourself.
So I walk with my head up high, knowing God has sent his angels
To guide me in my path.
And if I did grief in the same way as others, with my head down.
I know that the Devil will be staring me down.
And as I walk home on this rainy day,
I pray that sunshine is on its way!
As I’ve cried in this stall,
I got on my knees and prayed to God to let these tears stop
With hopes and dreams I get from him,
Smiling each day because I know I am strong.
poem by Rachel Martin
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Fulfilment
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethern: one.
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast
Belovèd soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Oped mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony!
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier,
All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
poem by Robert Nichols
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If Grief for Grief Can Touch Thee
If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee.
And when the world despises,
When Heaven repels my prayer,
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain,
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 48: How careful was I, when I took my way
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unusèd stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not—though I feel thou art—
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
poem by William Shakespeare
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A grief ago
'There is no grief
which time does not lessen
or soften' -
so said Cicero, a man so often right;
a Stoic, those for whom
all life presents a lesson
to be learned from,
and then, to move on from..
But I wonder about all this:
is grief ever lessened or softened?
Is it not, perhaps, overlaid
in our so various ways?
For some, grief framed and falsified
to ease that grief;
For some, like hyacinths and crocus bulbs,
left in a dark cupboard in the autumn of our grief
to respond to time, and
become at last
themselves?
gently, gently, the covers pulled
over the loving bed,
the true, the pure, the lovely painful grief,
the memory deep cherished,
gently, gently, folded
into the cupboards of the heart
there to be known, without the door disturbed
until the time - 'a grief ago' as Dylan wrote -
the cupboard opened only for love's sake
without grief...:
those carefully folded memories
brought out and loved
and lived a while...
not grief, not grief...but
the pure memory of grief
and behold,
life.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet XXXV
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this ?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ?
That 's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved sol am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XXXV: If I Leave All for Thee
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessings and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Xxxv
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this ?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change ?
That 's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved sol am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou ? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Jesus, Lord Of Heaven Above
Jesus, Lord of Heaven above,
Earth beneath is all Thy own
In the depths of Heavenly love
Let my human heart be sown.
Let my love that as a grain
None on earth might care to see,
Buried in Thy grave remain,
Be a precious seed to Thee.
Thou wilt raise it, though it die,
Thou wilt see it hidden there —
Thou wilt guard it with Thine eye
From the spirits of the air.
None shall take it thence away;
It is sown for Thy delight:
Thou wilt shine on it by day, —
Thou wilt shield it in the night.
Where the silent waters flow,
It shall multiply its root;
It shall blossom, it shall grow,
It shall bear immortal fruit.
Sown in weakness, raised in power —
Sown in suffering, raised in peace —
It shall brave the blighting hour,
In the year of drought increase.
Never hurt by sun or storm,
Blest its every stage shall be;
Dying in its mortal form —
Living evermore in Thee.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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