Poems begining by H

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Home

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

I want to go to the heather hills,

To the heather hills and rocky shore.

Ho! Everyone That Thirsts, Draw Nigh

© Charles Wesley

Ho! every one that thirsts, draw nigh!
('Tis God invites the fallen race)
Mercy and free salvation buy;
Buy wine, and milk, and gospel grace.

Home At Night

© James Whitcomb Riley

When chirping crickets fainter cry,
And pale stars blossom in the sky,
And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom
And blurred the butterfly:

Hymn XVI: Happy the Souls That First Believed

© Charles Wesley

Happy the souls that first believed,
To Jesus and each other cleaved,
Joined by the unction from above
In mystic fellowship of love.

How Still, How Happy!

© Emily Jane Brontë

How still, how happy! Those are words
That once would scarce agree together;
I loved the plashing of the surge,
The changing heaven the breezy weather,

Here And There

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

HERE the warm sunshine fills
Like wine of gods the deepening, cup-shaped dells,
Embossed with marvellous flowers; the happy rills
Roam through the autumnal fields whose rich increase

Home Fire by Linda Parsons Marion: American Life in Poetry #92 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2

Home is where the heart. . . Well, surely we all know that old saying. But it's the particulars of a home that make it ours. Here the poet Linda Parsons Marion, who lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, celebrates familiarity, in its detail and its richness.

Horace To Maecenas

© Eugene Field

How breaks my heart to hear you say

You feel the shadows fall about you!

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

© Alfred Tennyson

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
She must weep or she will die.

Hymn IX. Where high the heavenly temple stands

© John Logan

Where high the heavenly temple stands,
The house of God not made with hands,
A great High Priest our nature wears,
The Patron of mankind appears.

Hildebrand And Hellelil

© William Morris

Hellelil sitteth in bower there,
None knows my grief but God alone,
And seweth at the seam so fair,
I never wail my sorrow to any other one.

Home 2

Fair was the morning, fair our tempers, and
We had seen nothing fairer than that land,
Though strange, and the untrodden snow that made
Wild of the tame, casting out all that was
Not wild and rustic and old; and we were glad.

Hymns to the Night : 2

© Novalis

Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never cease? Unholy activity consumes the angel-visit of the Night

© Sylvia Plath

Flintlike, her feet struck
Such a racket of echoes from the steely street,
Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black
Stone-built town, that she heard the quick air ignite
Its tinder and shake