#AmericanWriters #PoemsOfPower
In England, there are wrongs no d… Which should be righted; so men sa… Who seek to weed earth’s garden ou… And give the roses right of way; Yes, right of way, to fruit and ro…
Look in the eyes of trouble with a… Extend your hand and do not be afr… —Tis but a friend who comes to mas… And test your faith and courage fo… Fly, and he follows fast with thre…
Lightly they hold him and lightly… Soft as a pillow are somebody’s ar… Down he goes slowly, ever so lowly Over the rim of the cradle they la… Baby’s first journey is free from…
I want more lives in which to love This world so full of beauty, I want more days to use the ways I know of doing duty; I ask no greater joy than this
With every rising of the sun Think of your life as just begun. The past has shrived and buried de… All yesterdays—there let them slee… Nor seek to summon back one ghost
Long, long ago, ere yet our race b… When earth was empty, waiting stil… Before the breath of life to him w… The angels fell into a strife in h… At length one furious demon graspe…
In the silent midnight watches, When the earth was clothed in gloo… And the grim and awful darkness Crept unbidden to my room– On the solemn, deathly stillness
Last was the wealth I carried in… Youth, health, ambition, hope and… And Fate, those robbers fit for a… Stole all, and left me but the emp… Before me lay a long and lonely tr…
Out from my window westward I turn full oft my face; But the mountains rebuke the visio… That would encompass space; They lift their lofty foreheads
I held the golden vessel of my sou… And prayed that God would fill it… Day after day the importuning cry Grew stronger-grew, a heaven-accus… Because no sacred waters laved my…
Do you know what moves the tides As they swing from low to high? ’Tis the love, love, love, Of the moon within the sky. Oh! they follow where she guides,
Obscured the sun, the world is dar… Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc, Send down thy spark. Let every heart in France be stir… By such an all-compelling word
On the white throat of useless pas… That scorched my soul with its bur… I clutched my fingers in murderous… And gathered them close in a grip… For why should I fan, or feed wit…
Oh! the earth is full of sinning And of trouble and of woe, But the devil makes an inning Every time we say it’s so. And the way to set him scowling,
And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward,