Truth poems
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Homeward Bound
© Gibbon Perceval
It's goodbye now to Africa, but kiss your hand againTo the upland trek and the old trade road and kop and kloof and plain; There's another trek instead for us, And a long strange road ahead for us,But never the old home outspan, however the team may strain
To a Dead Crow
© Ghose Kasiprasad
Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!How oft at morning's rosy primeWhen thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,And to avoid that hateful sound,That plagues a head howe'er profound,Have walked out in my garden, whereBeside the tank, in many a square,Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,Far from those trees within whose gloomOf foliage thick, thou hadst thy nestFrom daily toil at night to rest
XI Mon. January [1736] hath xxxi days.
© Benjamin Franklin
Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion,Instead of Truth they use Equivocation,And eke it out with mental Reservation,Which to good Men is an Abomination
Ben Bolt
© English Thomas Dunn
Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -- Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone,They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey, And Alice lies under the stone
Ten Precepts from Dhammapada
© Romesh Chunder Dutt
Return Love for Hatred.1.2 Hatred lives and mortal strife;1.3Love return for bitter hatred,1.4 Hatred dies, and sweet is life! (5)
An Evening Contemplation in a College
© Duncombe John
The Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates,With jarring sound the porter turns the key,Then in his dreary mansion slumb'ring waits,And slowly, sternly quits it -- tho' for me.
To my Honor'd Friend, Dr. Charleton
© John Dryden
The longest tyranny that ever sway'dWas that wherein our ancestors betray'dTheir free-born reason to the Stagirite,And made his torch their universal light
The Hind and the Panther: Part I
© John Dryden
A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang'd,Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd;Without unspotted, innocent within,She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin
Retrospect
© Doyle Arthur Conan
There is a better thing, dear heart, Than youthful flush or girlish grace
Twicknam Garden
© John Donne
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears, Hither I come to seek the spring, And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,Receive such balms as else cure every thing; But oh, self-traitor, I do bringThe spider love, which transubstantiates all, And can convert manna to gall,And that this place may thoroughly be thoughtTrue paradise, I have the serpent brought
To the Countess of Bedford [To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me ...]
© John Donne
To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to meWorst of spiritual vices, simony ;And not to have written then seems little lessThan worst of civil vices, thanklessness
Song
© Dodsley Robert
Man's a poor deluded bubble, Wand'ring in a mist of lies,Seeing false, or seeing double, Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?Yet presuming on his senses, On he goes most wond'rous wise:Doubts of truth, believes pretences; Lost in error, lives and dies
Delia XXXIII
© Samuel Daniel
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow sitting aloneReceived hast this message from thy glass,That tells thee truth and says that all is gone:Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining;I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning
The Rhyme of the Beast
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
Lo, the Beast that rioteth, Sick with hate and coveting --To the sons of men he saith, I will show you a new thing.
How He Died
© Crosby Ernest Howard
So he died for his faith. That is fine. More than most of us do.But stay; can you add to that line That he lived for it too?
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
Correspondences
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
All things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that can read them;Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends,Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting thereon
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
