Work poems
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Her Portrait
© Francis Thompson
Oh, but the heavenly grammar did I hold
Of that high speech which angels' tongues turn gold!
Henry And Emma. A Poem.
© Matthew Prior
Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron lived,
Great gifts bestowed, and great respect received.
Lord Kitchener
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Among Herculean deeds the miracle
That mass'd the labour of ten years in one
Shall be thy monument. Thy work was done
Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell
Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell
By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.
William Henry Groom Vale`
© George Essex Evans
For never shall oblivion slight
The hearts that fight the Peoples fight.
Much less, when, thro a life of stress,
One voice gainst countless odds has stood,
And won, in pain and bitterness,
The Peoples good.
Paracelsus: Part II: Paracelsus Attains
© Robert Browning
Ay, my brave chronicler, and this same hour
As well as any: now, let my time be!
A Hero Gone
© John Greenleaf Whittier
He has done the work of a true man--
Crown him, honor him, love him;
Weep over him, tears of woman,
Stoop, manliest brows, above him!
At a Certain Age by Deborah Cummins: American Life in Poetry #138 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 200
© Ted Kooser
You've surely heard it said that the old ought to move over to make room for the young. But in the best of all possible worlds, people who love their work should be able to do it as long as they wish. Those forced to retire, well, they're a sorry lot. Here the Chicago poet, Deborah Cummins, shows a man trying to adjust to life after work.
At a Certain Age
Teresinas Face
© Margaret Widdemer
He saw it last of all before they herded in the steerage,
Dark against the sunset where he lingered by the hold,
The tear-stained dusk-rose face of her, the little Teresina,
Sailing out to lands of gold:
The Net-Menders
© Sylvia Plath
Halfway up from the little harbor of sardine boats,
Halfway down from groves where the thin, bitter almond pips
Fatten in green-pocked pods, the three net-menders sit out,
Dressed in black, everybody in mourning for someone.
They set their stout chairs back to the road and face the dark
Dominoes of their doorways.
Week-End
© Harold Monro
I
The train! The twleve o'clock for paradise.
Hurry, or it will try to creep away.
Out in the country every one is wise:
Glorious France
© Edgar Lee Masters
You have become a forge of snow-white fire,
A crucible of molten steel, O France!
To The Spring
© Frances Anne Kemble
Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Sonnet XIX: On His Blindness
© John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
The Strike Of The Fireworks
© Carolyn Wells
And so they talked and they argued, some for and some against,--
And they progressed no further than they were when they commenced.
Until in a burst of eloquence a queer little piece of punk
Arose in his place and said, "I think we ought to show some spunk.
And I for one have decided, although I am no shirk,
That to-day is a legal holiday and not even fire should work.
An Epistle To William Hogarth
© Charles Churchill
Amongst the sons of men how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own!
Fire. (Sonnet II.)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Not without fire can any workman mould
The iron to his preconceived design,
Dear Is The Lost Wife To A Lone Man's Heart
© Jean Ingelow
Dear is the lost wife to a lone man's heart,
When in a dream he meets her at his door,
And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart,
All unresponsive on a silent shore;
Dearer, yea, more desired art thou-for thee
My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea.
Earth Voices
© Bliss William Carman
"Across the sleeping furrows
I call the buried seed,
And blade and bud and blossom
Awaken at my need.
